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, Agalinis acuta'Pennell'! An endangered species! A whole field of them!" He cupped a flower in his hand, inhaled loudly.
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 violence!"
Boom!
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.
Boom! Boom!
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."
The man took it with a large hand. " Warrant of Search and Seizure," he read out loud, in his sonorous voice. The accent waslike 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 Étienne 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.