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 an animal controlissue." 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 Charrière." 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. Charrière would seem to be a hungenikonpriest. 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.
"All right," said D'Agosta, "start at the back and work toward the door."
They walked down the center of the church. The floor was laid in large, square blocks of foot — polished stone, and there were no chairs, no pews. Their ceremonies and rites — and D'Agosta couldn't even begin to imagine what they must be like — must be done standing. Or maybe kneeling. He noticed strange designs painted on the walls: curlicues and eyes and fronded plants, all linked by elaborate series of lines. They reminded him strongly of the priest's garb — and even more of the bloody design that had been painted on the wall of Smithback's apartment.
He motioned to Perez. "Take a picture of that design."
"Right."
The flash caused Pulchinski to jump.
The lamb bleated again. Hundreds of eyes watched them, and now and again D'Agosta was sure he saw the gleam of honed metal tucked into the folds of their robes.
At length the small group reached the rear of the structure. Where the choir would normally be, there was instead an animal pen, surrounded by a wooden fence, with straw matting covering the ground. In the middle stood a post with a chain dangling from it, and attached to the chain was a lamb. Damp straw, splattered with dark stains, covered the floor. The walls were dribbled with hardened blood, gore, and bits of feces. The post had once been carved like a totem pole, but it was so layered in offal and dung that the carvings had become unrecognizable.
Behind stood a brickwork altar, on which were placed pitchers of water, polished stones, fetishes, and bits of food. Above, on a small pedestal, were some implements of a vaguely nautical cast that D'Agosta didn't recognize: coiled, hooked pieces of metal set into wooden bases, almost like oversize corkscrews. They were highly polished, displayed like holy relics. Next to the altar sat a horsehair chest, padlocked.
"Nice," said D'Agosta, as he played the light over the scene. "Real nice."
"I've never seen Vôdou like this," murmured Bertin. "In fact, I would not call this Vôdou. Oh, the foundations are there, certainly, but this has gone in a completely different, more dangerous,direction."
"This is horrible," said Pulchinski. He took out a video camera and began taping.
The appearance of the device caused a shuffling sound to rise from the massed people, a collective rustle.
"This is a sacred place," said the high priest, his voice resonating in the enclosed space. "You are defilingit. Defiling our faith!"
"Get it all on tape, Mr. Pulchinski," said D'Agosta.
Moving as swiftly as a bat, his robes suddenly flaring, the high priest swooped in, swung his staff, and knocked the video camera out of Pulchinski's hands, sending it crashing to the floor. Pulchinski stumbled back, neighing in terror.
D'Agosta had his service revolver out in a flash. "Mr. Charrière, keep your hands in sight and turn around — I said, turn around!"
The high priest did nothing. The gun was trained on him, but the man seemed unfazed.
Pendergast — who had been flitting around, scraping samples off various artifacts and altar items and dropping them into tiny test tubes — swiftly appeared in front of D'Agosta. "Just a moment, Lieutenant," he said quietly, then turned. "Mr. Charrière?"