The slickness of the walls allowed him to move farther back along the slight downslope as he pushed as deeply as he could into the niche.
And then he waited, listening, as the voices of the searchers waxed and waned, gradually growing closer. And then they grew all too clear: his pursuers were now in the chamber.
He was far back in darkness, too far for a flashlight to penetrate. He heard rattling sounds: they were jabbing a pole into the burial niches, trying to root him out. In a moment the pole came sliding into his own crawl space, knocking the bones aside, but he was too deep and the pole fell short. It prodded this way and that before finally withdrawing. He heard them probing in successive niches. Then, suddenly, their voices rose in both pitch and excitement. He heard the sound of retreating footsteps and then, quite quickly, their voices died away.
Silence. Had they been called back to defend the Ville? It was the only possible explanation.
He waited a minute, then another, just to be safe. Then he moved to extricate himself from the niche. It was useless: he discovered that, in his panic, he had wedged himself in very tightly. Too tightly. A horrible sense of claustrophobia washed over him; he struggled to master it, to regulate his breathing. He wriggled again but he was firmly stuck. The panic threatened to surge back, stronger.
It couldn't be. He'd gotten in; surely he could get out.
He bent his leg, wedged it between the ceiling and the floor, and tried to leverage himself out while pushing with his good hand. No luck. The walls were slippery with damp and slime and the pitch was slightly uphill. He struggled, grunting, his good hand scrabbling on the wetness. In a fresh wave of panic, he dug his nails into the moist earth and tried to push his way forward, breaking several of them in the process.
My God,he thought. I'm buried alive.
It was all he could do to keep from screaming.
Chapter 69
It took Special Agent Pendergast ten minutes of wrong turns and doubling — back to reach the dumbwaiter 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 afraidyou requiahthe use of this boat?" he drawled. "Well, I'm afraidI requiahauthorization to that effect. Because I can't just give up police property to anyone, even J. Edgar Hoovah."
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 emergency.My, my, what kind of emergency?" Mulvaney hiked up his belt, setting his cuffs and keys ajangle, and waited, his head cocked to one side.
"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.