leading up to the pantry. He pulled out the groaning, semi — conscious man, climbed in, and — by reaching through a panel in the top and grasping the cables — was able to haul himself up and out of the basement. When the dumbwaiter bumped to a stop against the shaft ceiling, Pendergast slid open the door and jumped out. From the church came the sounds of a loud disturbance, one that seemed to have drawn off all members of the Ville within earshot. That left him an escape route. He sprinted through the darkened rooms of the old rectory, out the side door, and down the crooked back alley. In less than five minutes he was once again in the woods of Inwood Hill Park. He shrugged out of the cloak and hood and dropped them on the leafy ground, pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
'Hayward,' came the clipped answer.
'Pendergast here.'
'Now why does hearing your voice fill me with dread?'
'Are you in the vicinity of Inwood Hill Park?'
'I'm with Chislett and his men.'
'Ah, yes. Chislett. A testament to the ultimate futility of higher education. Now listen: D'Agosta is in the basements of the Ville. He might be in a difficult situation.'
A brief silence. 'Vinnie? Inside the Ville? What the hell for?'
'I think you can guess — he's looking for Nora Kelly. But I've just now realized Nora isn't there. There's a confrontation brewing—'
'It's not just brewing. It's fully brewed, and—'
Pendergast cut her off. 'I think Vincent might need your help — and need it rather badly.'
A silence. 'And what, exactly, are you up to?'
'No time for that, every minute counts now. Listen: there's something inside the Ville, something they themselves unleashed. It attacked us.'
'Like a zombii?' came the sarcastic answer.
'A man — or, at least, a creature that was once a man, now transformed into something extremely dangerous. I repeat: Vincent needs help. His life might be in danger. Be careful.'
Without waiting for a reply, Pendergast snapped the phone shut. In the distance, through the trees, he could see moonlight sparkling off the Harlem River. There was a sound of a motor, and then a searchlight probed through the darkness: a police boat, cruising back and forth, belatedly on the watch for protesters coming from the west or north. Quickly, Pendergast sprinted through the woods toward the river. As he reached the edge of the trees he slowed to a walk, adjusted his torn suit, then sauntered out onto the marsh grass and down to the pebbled beach. He waved to the police boat, pulling out his FBI shield and brandishing it with the aid of his penlight.
The boat slowed, turned, then nosed into the cove, idling just off the shingle shore. It was a jet — propelled patrol boat, the NYPD's latest model. Inside were a police sergeant and an officer of the marine unit.
'Who are you?' the sergeant asked, flicking the butt of a cigarette out into the water. He had a crew cut and a fleshy face with old acne scars, thick lips, a triple neck roll, and small triangular fingers. His partner, standing at the controls of the boat, looked like he spent most of his off — time in the gym. The muscles in his neck were as taut as the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. 'Man, you look like you've been through the wringer.'
Pendergast returned his shield to his jacket pocket. 'Special Agent Pendergast.'
'Yeah? FBI? Happens every time, eh, Charlie?' He nudged his partner. 'The FBI arrive, too late with too little. How do you guys manage it?'
'Sergeant—' Pendergast waded into the water, coming up to the gunwale of the boat and laying a hand on it.
'Ruined your shoes, pal,' said the sergeant, with another wry glance at his partner.
Pendergast glanced at the man's nameplate. 'Sergeant Mulvaney, I'm afraid I require the use of this boat.'
The sergeant stared at him, standing thigh — deep in the water, and cracked a smile. 'You're
The beefy partner rippled his muscles and snorted. 'Trust me, Sergeant, it's an emergency. I hereby invoke Section 302(b)2 of the Uniform Code—'
'Ah, we got a lawyer here too! An
'A life. In danger. This has been a charming exchange, but I'm afraid I don't have any more time to bandy words with you, Sergeant. First and last warning.'
'Look, I've got my orders. Keep an eye on the seaward approach to the Ville. And I'm not giving up this patrol boat just because you say so.' The sergeant folded his hammy arms and smiled down at Pendergast.
'Mr. Mulvaney?' Pendergast leaned on the gunwale toward Mulvaney, as if to speak confidentially in his ear. Mulvaney crouched to hear; there came a quick movement, Pendergast's fist arm shot upward into the cop's solar plexus, and with an abrupt sigh of expelled air Mulvaney bent over the gunwale. With a quick twist Pendergast flipped him in the water, where he landed with a huge splash.
'What the
Pendergast hauled the dripping officer to his feet, having relieved him of his gun, and aimed it at the marine officer. 'Toss your weapons out onto the beach.'
'You can't—'
The report of the gun caused the officer to jump.
'All right! Jesus.' The man removed his weapons and chucked them out on the shingle. 'Is this FBI protocol?'
'Let me worry about protocol,' Pendergast said, still gripping the gasping Mulvaney. 'What you need to do is get out of the boat. Now.'
The partner gingerly lowered himself into the water. In a flash Pendergast had vaulted into the cockpit. Pulling the shift into reverse, he backed the jet boat away from shore.
'So terribly sorry to discommode you gentlemen,' he called out, spinning the wheel and slamming the shift into forward. He gunned the engine with a roar and vanished around the curve of shore.
Chapter 70
Summoning allthe presence of mind he could muster, D'Agosta slowed his breathing and focused on his mission. He had to free Nora. Somehow, shifting focus away from being trapped helped calm him down. The problem wasn't so much that he was stuck, but that the walls were so slippery; he simply couldn't get a purchase, especially with only one good arm. He'd ruined his nails in a futile effort, but what he really needed was something sharp and strong that would bite into the walls and help pull him out.
There, not six inches from his hand, was a human jawbone, sporting all its teeth. He squirmed desperately, just managing to move his good arm sufficiently to grasp the mandible. Then he twisted his body sideways and jammed the teeth of the jawbone into a crack in the roof of the niche; by simultaneously pulling and wriggling at the same time, he eventually managed to work himself free.
With enormous relief he crawled back out of the niche and stood up in the chamber, breathing heavily. Everything was silent. Apparently, the zombii and the hunting party had both fallen back to deal with the protesters.
He returned to the central passageway and cautiously used his lighter to examine its length. It ended in a cul — de — sac. There were other crude burial chambers to either side, excavated from the same heavy clay and shored up with timbers, but they looked nothing like the mortared stone walls in the video. Nothing he had seen so far, in fact, resembled that kind of construction — the very stone was different. He had to look elsewhere.
Retracing his steps, skirting the well, he found himself back in the area of the vaulted necropolis. Along the walls were many small iron doors that led into what were, apparently, family crypts; he investigated each in turn,
