Cemetery Dance

reporter, Smithback — then he was murdered. By a zombii or someone dressed like one, according to the papers. Then I was interviewed by that other reporter, Caitlyn Kidd — and thenshe's killed by a so — called zombii. Now they're after me!'

'The zombiis are after you,' D'Agosta repeated, in as neutral a tone as possible.

'Look, I don't know if they're real or fake. The point is— they're coming from the Ville.Something's got to be done — right away. Those people are way out of control, cutting the throats of innocent animals, and now using unholy ceremonies to murder people who object to their practices. Meanwhile, New York does nothing while these killers squat on city — owned land!'

Now Pendergast, who had been unusually quiet through this exchange, came forward. 'I'm so sorry about your injury,' he said as he bent solicitously, examining Esteban's bandage. 'May I—' He began detaching the tape.

'I would rather you didn't.'

But the bandage was off. Underneath was a two — inch cut with half a dozen stitches. Pendergast nodded. 'Lucky for you it was a sharp knife and a clean cut. Rub it with a little Neosporin and it won't even leave a scar.'

'Lucky? The thing nearly killed me!'

Pendergast reattached the bandage and stepped back behind the desk. 'There's no mystery to why the attack came now, either,' Esteban said. 'It's well known I've been planning a march protesting animal cruelty at the Ville — I've got a parade permit for this afternoon, and it's been reported in the papers.'

'I'm aware of that,' said D'Agosta.

'Obviously, they're trying to silence me.'

D'Agosta leaned forward. 'Do you have any specific information connecting the Ville with this attack?'

'Any idiot can see everything points to the Ville! First Smith — back, then Kidd, and now me.'

'I'm afraid it's not obvious at all,' said Pendergast.

'What do you mean?'

'I'm puzzled why they didn't come for you first.'

Esteban gave him a hostile stare. 'How so?'

'You've been the instigator from the beginning. If it were me, I'd have killed you right away.'

'Are you trying to be a wise guy?'

'By no means. Just pointing out the obvious.'

'Then allow me to point out the obvious — that you've got a bunch of murderous squatters up there in Inwood, and that neither the city nor the cops are doing anything about it. Well, they're going to be sorry they came afterme. Come this afternoon, we're going to raise such a stink that you'll have no choice but to take action.' He rose.

'You'll need to read and sign the statement,' said D'Agosta.

With an irritated exhalation of breath, Esteban waited while the statement was being printed, read through it fast, scribbled a signature. He stepped to the door, then turned and pointed a finger at them. It was trembling with outrage and anger. 'Today, everything changes. I'm sick and tired of this inaction, and so are a lot of other New Yorkers.'

Pendergast smiled, touching a finger to his forehead. 'Neosporin, once a day. Works wonders.'

Chapter 45

D'Agosta and Pendergaststood on the corner of 214th Street and Seaman Avenue, watching the progress of the march. D'Agosta was surprised at the minuscule turnout — he estimated a hundred people, maybe less. Harry Chislett, the deputy chief for this district, had shown up and then, when he saw the size of the crowd, had left. It was proving an orderly affair, sedate, placid, almost somnolent. No angry shouting, no pressing against the police barricades, no rocks or bottles flying out of nowhere.

'Looks like an ad for the L.L. Bean catalog,' said D'Agosta, squinting through the sunlight of the crisp fall day.

Pendergast was leaning against a lamppost, arms folded. 'L.L. Bean? I'm not familiar with that brand.'

The marchers flowed around the corner at West 214th Street, heading toward Inwood Hill Park, waving placards and chanting in unison. Leading the fray was Alexander Esteban, bandage still on his forehead, along with another man.

'Who's the guy holding hands with Esteban?' D'Agosta asked.

'Richard Plock,' Pendergast replied. 'Executive director of Humans for Other Animals.'

D'Agosta looked curiously at the man. Plock was young, no more than thirty, soft, white, and overweight. He walked with determination, his short legs earnestly pumping, toes pointed outward, his plump arms swinging, the hands flapping at the apex of each swing, his face set with determination. Even in a short — sleeved shirt in the chill fall air, he was sweating. Where Esteban had charisma, Plock seemed to have none. And yet there was an aura about him of solemn belief that impressed D'Agosta: here was clearly a man with an unshakable faith in the rightness of his cause.

Behind the two leaders came a line of people holding up a huge banner:

Evict the Ville!

Everyone seemed to have his own agenda. There were many signs accusing the Ville of murdering Smithback and Kidd. Beyond that, the protesters were all over the map: vegetarians, the anti — fur and anti — drug — testing crowd, religious extremists protesting voodoo and zombiis, even a scattering of anti — war protesters, meat is murder, read one sign; friend not food, fur is dead, animal torture is not spiritual. Some held up blown — up photographs of Smithback and Kidd, side by side, with the caption murdered underneath.

D'Agosta looked away from the blurry photographs. It was getting on toward one pm. His stomach growled. 'Not much happening here.'

Pendergast did not reply, his silvery eyes scanning the crowd.

'Lunch?'

'I suggest we wait.'

'Nothing's going to happen — these people don't want to wrinkle their button — down pinpoint oxfords.'

Pendergast gazed at the passing crowd. 'I would prefer to remain here at least until the speechifying is over.'

Pendergast never seems to eat, thought D'Agosta. In fact, he couldn't remember a single time when they had shared a meal outside of the Riverside Drive mansion. Why did he even bother to ask?

'Let's follow the crowd to Indian Road,' said Pendergast.

This isn't a crowd, D'Agosta thought.It's a damn Sunday gathering. He followed Pendergast down the sidewalk, feeling disgruntled. The 'crowd' was beginning to gather in the field at the edge of the baseball diamonds, along the road to the Ville. So far, all according to permit. The police hung back, watching, the riot gear, pepper spray, and batons already stowed back inside the vans. Of the two dozen squad cars originally dispatched, more than half had already left the scene to return to their normal patrols.

As the group milled about, chanting and waving their placards, Plock climbed onto the baseball bleachers. Esteban stepped up and positioned himself behind him, hands folded respectfully across his chest, listening.

'Friends and other animals!' Plock cried. 'Welcome!' He used no megaphone, but his strident, high — pitched voice carried all too well.

A hush fell on the crowd, the ragged chanting dying away. This crowd of yuppies and Upper West Siders, D'Agosta thought, was no more likely to riot than the ladies at a Colonial Dames tea. What he really needed right now was a cup of coffee and a bacon cheese — burger.