She looked around. "Where is my drink? Gaston!"

One of the attendants lifted a Dixie cup to her lips, and she sucked daintily through the straw. "I prefer gin, as you know," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," said the attendant, with a smirk at his partner.

"What happened?" Pendergast asked.

"The groom's wife — God bless her — didn't care for Marie LeBon congressing with her husband. She wreaked her revenge." She cackled. "Settled her hash with a meat cleaver. I didn't think she had it in her."

"The jealous wife's name was Mrs. Ducharme."

"Mrs. Ducharme! A big woman with arms like French hams. She knew how to swing that cleaver!"

"Mr. Pendergast?" said the doctor. "I have warned you about these types of interviews before."

Pendergast ignored him. "Wasn't there something strange about the… corpse?" "Strange? What do you mean?"

"The… Vôdou aspects."

"Vôdou? Diogenes! It was not Vôdou, but Obeah. There's a difference, you know. Yes, but of course you know. Certainly more than your brother does, eh? Though he is no stranger to it, either — is he?" And here the old woman began chuckling unpleasantly.

"We were talking about the corpse—" Pendergast said by way of encouragement.

"There was something strange, now that you mention it. A bit of gris — gris was pinned to her tongue—oanga."

"Oanga? You seem to know a lot about Obeah, Aunt Cornelia."

Suddenly Aunt Cornelia's expression grew wary. "One hears servants talking. Besides, that's a fine thing to say, coming fromyou. Do you think I've forgotten your little—experiment,shall we say? — and the unfortunate reaction it provoked from themobile vulgus —"

"Tell me about the oanga," Pendergast interrupted, with the briefest of glances toward D'Agosta.

"Very well. The oanga, they said, was a fetish of a skeleton or corpse soaked in a broth made from Shrove Tuesday ashes; bile of a sow; water from a forge used to harden iron; blood of a virgin mouse; and alligator flesh."

"And its purpose?"

"To extract the dead person's soul, make him a slave. A zombii. You of all people know all this, Diogenes!"

"Still, I appreciate hearing it from you, Aunt Cornelia."

"After the corpse is buried, it is supposed to come back as the slave of the person who placed the oanga. And do you know what? Six months later, that boy died over on Iberville Street — found suffocated to death in a tied — up sack — and they said it was the zombii of Miss Marie, because the boy had pulled down Mrs. Ducharme's laundry. And then they checked Miss Marie's tomb and found it empty, or so they say. I hardly need add that the Ducharmes were discharged. You can't have servants embarrassing a genteel home."

"Time's up, Mr. Pendergast." The doctor rose with a sense of finality. The attendants sprang to their feet and took their places on either side of her wheelchair. The doctor nodded and they began turning her around, heading for the back door.

Suddenly, Aunt Cornelia swiveled her head back toward them, fixing her gaze on D'Agosta. "You were awfully silent today, Ambergris. Cat got your tongue? Next time, I'll be sure to prepare some of my lovely little watercress sandwiches for you. Your family always adored them."

D'Agosta could only nod. The doctor opened the door for the wheelchair.

"And lovely to see you again, Diogenes," said Aunt Cornelia over her shoulder. "You were always my favorite, you know. I'm so glad you finally did something about that horrid eye of yours."

As they drove past the gates, the headlights of the Rolls — Royce cutting through the drifting layers of fog, D'Agosta could stand it no longer. "Excuse me, Pendergast, but I have to ask: you don't actually believe that stuff about oanga and zombiis?"

"My dear Vincent, I don't believe anything. I am not a priest. I deal with evidence and probabilities, not beliefs."

"Yeah, I know. But I mean, Night of the Living Dead? No way."

"That is a rather categorical statement."

"But…"

"But what?"

"It's clear to me we're dealing with someone trying to mislead us with this voodoo shit, sending us off on a wild goose chase."

"Clear?" Pendergast quoted the word back to him, his right eyebrow elevating slightly.

D'Agosta said, exasperated, "Look, I just want to know if you think it's even remotely possible we're dealing with a real zombii. That's all."

"I'd prefer not to say what I think. However, there is a line of Hamlet you might do well to keep in mind."

"And what's that?"

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio — Need I continue?"

"No." D'Agosta sat back in the plush leather seat, musing that sometimes it was better to leave Pendergast to his unknown thoughts than to try to force the issue.

At nine o'clock the next morning, Nora walked swiftly down the long hall of the museum's fifth floor, eyes resolutely downcast, past the doors of her colleagues. It was like running the gauntlet, but at least they didn't all come rushing out as they had the days before.

Reaching her own office, she turned the key and quickly entered, shutting and locking the door behind her. She turned and there, silhouetted against the window, stood Special Agent Pendergast, leafing casually through a monograph. D'Agosta sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner, dark circles under his eyes.

The agent glanced up. "Forgive our intrusion into your office, but I do not care to be seen loitering about the museum's halls. Given my past history with this institution, some might take exception to my presence."

She dropped her backpack on the desk. "I have the results."

Pendergast slowly laid down the monograph. "You look very tired."

"Whatever." After her trip to Inwood, she had managed a few hours of fitful sleep, but still she'd had to rise in the middle of the night to finish the gel electrophoresis of the DNA.

"May I?" Pendergast gestured toward a second empty chair.

"Please."

Pendergast settled himself. "Tell me what you found."

Nora pulled an expandable file out of her backpack and laid it on the table. "Before I give you this, I have to tell you something. Something important."

Pendergast inclined his head.

"The night before last, while I was doing the initial PCR work, Fearing showed his face at the lab window. I chased him down the hall and into one of the storage rooms."

Pendergast gazed at her intently. "Are you quite sure it was Fearing?"

"I have proof."

"You were ill advised to follow him," he said sharply. "What happened?"

"I know it was incredibly stupid. I reacted instinctively, didn't think. He was luring me out of the PCR lab. He had a knife, he stalked me through the storage room. If a guard hadn't come by…" She didn't finish the sentence.

D'Agosta had risen from his chair, like a coiled spring suddenly released. "Son of a bitch," he said, scowling.

"And your proof?" Pendergast asked.

She smiled grimly. "I cut him with a piece of glass and tested a blood sample. It's Fearing, all right." She opened the folder, pulled out the electrophoresis pictures, thrust them toward the agent. "Take a look."