"I confess I am baffled. Monsieur Bertin?"
Bertin had been looking increasingly agitated. Now he gestured for Pendergast to step to one side. " Mon frere,I cannot continue," he said in a low, urgent whisper. "I am sick, I tell you — sick! It is the work of that hungan,Charrière. His death conjure — you don't feel it at work yet?"
"I feel fine."
Hayward looked from the two of them to D'Agosta. She shook her head.
"We must leave," Bertin said. "We must return home. I need the syrup — sipping syrup. 'Lean'—I know you have some! Nothing else will calm me."
" Du calme, du calme, maître.Very soon." Then, turning back to the group, Pendergast said in a louder voice: "Now if you'd please examine this hook, monsieur?"
After a moment Bertin stepped forward most unwillingly, bent warily over the item, sniffed. He was sweating copiously now and his face was sallow. His breathing sounded like the wheezing of old bagpipes in the small room. "How very strange. I've never seen anything like this before."
Another sniff.
"And the miniature coffin we retrieved from Fearing's crypt. Is it the work of the same sect?"
Bertin took a cautious step closer to the little coffin. Its lid was in place now: made of cream — colored paper, hand — decorated with skulls and long bones in black ink. It had been elaborately folded, origami — fashion, to fit snugly over the papier — mâché coffin.
"The vévédrawn on that paper lid," said Pendergast. "With what Loais that identified?"
Bertin shook his head. "This vévéis quite unknown to me. I would guess this is private, secret, known only to a single Obeah sect. Whatever it is, it is very strange. I've never seen anything like it." He stretched out his hand — pulled it back when the ancient woman clucked her desiccated tongue — then stretched it out again and picked up the lid.
"Put that down," the woman said immediately.
Bertin turned it gently around and around in his hands, staring at it very closely and muttering to himself.
"Mr. Bertin," Hayward said warningly.
Bertin seemed not to hear. He turned the little paper construct over in his hands, first one way then another, still quietly muttering. And then — with a sudden flick of his fingers — he tore it in two.
A grayish powder poured from beneath the folds down over Bertin's pants and shoes.
Several things happened at once. Bertin cartwheeled backward, neighing in dismay and terror, the strips of paper fluttering away. The old lady grabbed for them as she began shouting imprecations. The burly man took hold of Bertin's collar and dragged him out of the evidence room. Pendergast knelt with the speed of a striking snake, plucked a small test tube from his suit pocket, and began sweeping grains of the gray powder into it. And Hayward stood in the midst of it all, arms folded, looking at D'Agosta as if to say: I warned you. I warned you.
Chapter 43
Proctor pulled the Rolls into a deserted parking lot behind the baseball fields at the edge of Inwood Hill Park and killed the lights. As Pendergast and D'Agosta stepped out of the car, Proctor walked to the trunk, opened it, and hauled out a long canvas bag holding tools, a plastic evidence box, and a metal detector.
"You think it's okay to just leave the car?" D'Agosta asked dubiously.
"Proctor will watch it." Pendergast took the canvas bag and handed it to D'Agosta. "Let us not dally here, Vincent."
"No shit."
He slung the bag over his shoulder and they set off across the empty baseball diamonds toward the woods. He glanced at his watch: two am. What was he doing? He had just promised Hayward he wouldn't let Pendergast drag him into any more sketchy activity — and now here he was, in the middle of the night, on a body — snatching expedition in a public park without permit or warrant. Hayward's phrase rang in his head: The way he goes about gathering evidence, I doubt Pendergast could ever convict his perps in a court of law. Maybe it's no coincidence they end up dead before trial.
"Remind me again why we're sneaking around like grave robbers?" he asked.
"Because we aregrave robbers."
At least, D'Agosta thought, Bertin wasn't along. He'd dropped out at the last minute, complaining of palpitations. The little man was all in a panic because Charrière had managed to get a few of his hairs. It seemed unlikely the high priest got any of hishairs, at least, D'Agosta thought with grim satisfaction: one advantage to going bald. He thought of the little scene that had played out in the evidence annex and frowned.
"What the hell was your pal Bertin demanding?" he asked. "Sipping syrup?"
"It's a cocktail he prefers when he gets, ah, overly excited."
"A cocktail?"
"Of sorts. Lemon — lime soda, vodka, codeine in solution, and a Jolly Rancher candy."
"A what?"
"Bertin prefers the watermelon — flavored variety."
D'Agosta shook his head. "Christ. Only in Louisiana."
"Actually, I understand the concoction originated in Houston."
Past the playing fields they ducked through a gap in a low, chain — link fence, crossed some fallow ground, and entered the woods. Pendergast switched on a GPS, the faint blue glow of its screen casting a ghastly light on the agent's face. "Where's the grave, exactly?"
"There's no marker. But thanks to Wren I know the location. It seems that, since the groundskeeper was a suspected suicide with no family to speak of, his remains couldn't be buried in the consecrated ground of the family plot. So he was buried close to where his body was found. An account of the burial says it took place near the Shorakkopoch monument."
"The what?"
"It's a marker commemorating the place where Peter Minuit purchased Manhattan from the Weckquaesgeek Indians."
Pendergast took the lead, D'Agosta following. They headed through the dense trees and underbrush, the rocky ground underfoot growing increasingly rugged. Once again, D'Agosta marveled that they were still on the island of Manhattan. The ground rose and fell, and they crossed a small brook, just a trickle of water running in its bed, then some rocky outcroppings. The woods grew thicker, blotting out the moon, and Pendergast produced his flashlight. Another half a mile of gradual descent over very rocky terrain, and suddenly a large boulder loomed up in the circle of yellow light.
"The Shorakkopoch monument," said Pendergast, checking his GPS. He directed his light to a bronze plaque screwed into the boulder, which described how at this spot, in 1626, Peter Minuit had bought Manhattan Island from the local Indians for sixty guilders' worth of trinkets.
"Nice investment," said D'Agosta.
"A very poor investment," said Pendergast. "If the sixty guilders had been invested in 1626 at five percent compound interest, a sum would have accumulated many times the value of the land of Manhattan today." Pendergast paused, shining his torch into the darkness. "According to our information, the body was buried twenty — two rods due north of the tulip tree that once stood near this monument."