"No."

"On the contrary: it doesn't matter what he believes. The atheist realizes that if there is even the slimmest chance he is wrong, he should act as if there is a God. If God exists, he will go to heaven rather than hell. If God does not, he loses nothing."

"Sounds pretty calculating to me."

"It is a wager with an infinite upside and no downside. And, I might add, it is a wager every human being must make. It is not optional. Pascal's Wager — the logic is impeccable."

"What does this have to do with Nora and zombiis?"

"I am sure if you consider the matter long enough you will see the logical connection."

D'Agosta screwed up his face, thought about it, and finally grunted. "I guess I can see your point."

"In that case: excellent. I am not normally in the habit of explaining myself, but for you I sometimes make an exception."

D'Agosta looked out the window as Spanish Harlem passed by. Then he turned back to Pendergast.

"What was that you said?"

"I'm sorry?"

"To the shopkeeper. You said something to him in a foreign language."

"Ah, yes. Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi — the dice of God are always loaded." And he sat back in the seat with a half smile.

Rocker saw D'Agosta immediately, less than a minute after he'd arrived in the commissioner's outer office at the very top of One Police Plaza. D'Agosta took this summons to be a good sign. The Smithback homicide was high profile — very high profile — and he had no doubt Rocker was following his progress in the case with interest. As he passed Rocker's assistant, Alice, a grandmotherly woman with a pile of gray hair, he gave her a wink and a smile. She did not smile back.

He strode into the grand paneled office with all its accoutrements of power, the huge mahogany desk with the green leather top, the wainscoted oak paneling, the Persian rug, all solid and traditional. Like Rocker.

Rocker was already standing at the window, and he didn't turn as D'Agosta entered. Nor, uncharacteristically, did he ask D'Agosta to take a seat in one of the overstuffed sofa — chairs that graced the sitting area opposite his desk.

D'Agosta waited a moment before venturing a small "Commissioner?"

The man turned around, hands clasped behind his back. On seeing the man's dark red face, D'Agosta felt sudden nausea in his gut.

"So what's this Kline business?" the commissioner asked abruptly.

D'Agosta did a quick mental backpedaling. "Well, sir, it's related to the Smithback homicide—"

"I'm aware of that," the commissioner rapped out. "What I mean is, why the heavy — handed search? You trashed the man's office."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. "Sir, Mr. Kline had made direct, verifiable threats to Smithback shortly before his death. He's a prime suspect."

"Then why didn't you charge him with threatening the deceased?"

"The threats were very careful, they stopped just this side of the law."

The commissioner stared at him. "And that's all you have against Kline? Vague threats to a journalist?"

"No, sir."

Rocker waited, his arms crossed.

"In the raid we netted Kline's collection of West African art — art that we can tie directly to an old voodoo — style religion. Similar to the objects found at the murder scene and on the victim's corpse."

"Similar? I thought they were masks."

"Masks, yes, but from the same tradition. We have an expert from the New York Museum examining them now."

The commissioner stared at him, tired eyes rimmed with red. It wasn't like him to be so brusque.Jesus, thought D'Agosta,Kline got to Rocker. Somehow, Kline got to him.

Rocker finally said, "I repeat: that's all?"

"The man's issued threats, he's a collector of voodoo items — I think that's a solid beginning."

"Solid? Lieutenant, let me tell you what you have. You have shit."

"Sir, I respectfully disagree." D'Agosta wasn't going to knuckle under. His entire team was behind him on this.

"Can't you understand we're dealing with one of the wealthiest men in Manhattan, a friend of the mayor, a philanthropist all over town, sitting on a dozen Fortune Five Hundred boards? You can't trash his office without a damn good reason!"

"Sir, this is just the beginning. I believe we have enough to justify continuing the investigation, and I intend to do just that." D'Agosta tried to keep his voice mild, neutral, but firm.

The commissioner stared at him. "Let me just say this: until you get a smoking gun on the man — and I meansmoking — you back off. That search was improper. It was harassment. And don't feign innocence. I was a homicide cop once, just like you. I know why you tossed his place, and I don't approve of those methods. You don't pull that drug — bust crap on a well — known, respected member of this city."

"He's a scumbag."

"That's the bad attitude I'm talking about, D'Agosta. Look, I'm not going to tell you how to run a homicide investigation, but I am warning you that the next time you want to pull something like that on Kline, think again." He stared long and hard at D'Agosta.

"I hear you, sir." D'Agosta had said what he had to say. No point in provoking the commissioner further.

"I'm not taking you off the Smithback homicide. Not yet. But I'm watching you, D'Agosta. Don't go native on me again."

"Yes, sir." The commissioner waved a hand dismissively as he turned back to the window. "Now get out of here."

Although theNew York Public Library had closed ninety minutes before, Special Agent Pendergast had unusual visiting privileges and never permitted the formality of business hours to incommode him. He glanced around with approval at the empty rows of tables in the cavernous Main Reading Room; nodded to the guard in the doorway whose nose was deep inMont Saint Michel and Chartres; then ducked into the receiving station and made his way down a steep set of metal stairs. After descending four flights, he exited into a low — ceilinged basement vault that seemed to stretch ahead endlessly, filled floor — to — ceiling with stack after stack of books on cast — iron shelves. Making his way down a transverse corridor, he opened a dingy, unmarked gray door. Beyond, another set of stairs — narrow and even steeper — led farther downward.

Another three flights and he emerged into a bizarre and semi — ruined bookscape. In the dim light, stacks of ancient and decomposing books leaned against one another for support. Tables littered with unbound book signatures, razor blades, jars of printer's glue, and other paraphernalia of manuscript surgery stood everywhere. Blizzards of printed material receded on all sides to an unguessable distance, forming a labyrinth of literature. There was an intense silence. The stuffy air smelled of dust and decay.

Pendergast placed the bundle he had been carrying on a nearby stack and cleared his throat.

For a moment, the silence remained unbroken. Then — from some remote and indeterminate distance — there was a faint scurrying. It grew slowly louder. And then an old man emerged from between two columns of books, tiny and frighteningly gaunt. A miner's hard hat rested atop a blizzard of white hair.

The man reached up and snapped off the headlamp. "Hypocrite lecteur," he said in a voice as thin and dry as birch bark. "I've been expecting you."