"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 Charrière. "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! An arrêt,with a false twine twist, done in a reverse spiral. The false — friend amulet! Mr. Charrière, 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 Charrière. "Why don't you trust these folk?" he asked.
With a roar, Charrière 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,Charrière…"
"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, feelit. 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 Siderthis 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 the West Sider— all the tabloids had now picked up the hue and cry. The Ville was being depicted in ever more ghoulish terms, with plenty of not — so — subtle hints that it was behind the killing of the West Sider's"star reporter," Caitlyn Kidd.
But it was on Bill Smithback himself that the papers lingered with the greatest morbidity. The high — profile murder of Kidd by Smithback, after being pronounced dead and undergoing an autopsy; his corpse missing from the M.E.'s office — everything had been sifted and speculated on with the greatest relish. And, of course, with more dark hints that the Ville was ultimately responsible.
As far as D'Agosta was concerned, the Ville wasresponsible. Still, despite his own mounting anger, he knew the last thing the city needed was vigilante justice.
The waitress returned with his coffee. He sipped it gratefully, stealing a glance at Hayward. Their eyes met. Her expression didn't seem particularly guilty, or particularly amorous. It seemed troubled.
"When did you visit Nora Kelly?"
"Last evening, as soon as I heard. Right after we finished searching the Ville."
"What happened to the protection you arranged for her?"
D'Agosta frowned. "The handoff was botched. Each of the two teams assigned thought the other had things covered. Fucking idiots."
"How is Nora?"
"Banged up here and there, some cuts and abrasions. Of greater concern is the second concussion she suffered. She'll be in the hospital at least a couple more days for observation."
"The neighbors broke it up?"
D'Agosta took another sip of coffee, nodded. "Her screams brought them running. They kicked down the door."
"And Nora insists it was Smithback?"
"Sure enough to testify to it in court. Same with the neighbors."
Hayward's eyes were on the faux marble of the tabletop. "This is too weird. I mean, what's going on?"
"The goddamn Ville is what's going on." Just thinking of Nora brought the anger back with a vengeance. It seemed he was always mad these days: mad at the Ville; mad at Kline and his oily threats; mad at the commissioner; mad at all the bureaucratic red tape that tied his hands; mad even at Pendergast with his irritating coyness and his insufferable little French Creole adviser.
Hayward was looking at him again. The troubled look was more pronounced. "What about the Ville, exactly?"
"Don't you see? They're behind everything. They haveto be. Smithback was right."
"May I point out that you haven't yet made good the connection. Smithback wrote about their alleged animal killings — that's it."
"They weren't alleged. I heard the animals in the back of the van. I sawthe knives, the bloodied straw. If you could have seen the place, Laura. My God, the robes, the hoods, the chanting… Those people are fanatics."