"This is it."

They ducked under the chain. Ahead, past the playing fields, the old road crossed an expanse of fallow ground, then vanished into the forest of Inwood Hill Park. Only a few cast — iron lampposts remained, and they were dark; looking up, Nora thought she could see bullet holes in the glass coverings.

Somewhere in the darkness ahead lay the Ville. She started forward, Caitlyn hurrying to keep up. The paved road narrowed and the trees closed in. The smell of damp leaves filled the air.

"You brought a flashlight, right?" Caitlyn asked.

"Yes, but I'd rather not use it."

The lane rose, gently at first, then steeply, to a rise that afforded views of the Henry Hudson Parkway and Columbia's Baker Field. They paused, gaining their bearings. Ahead, the path descended toward an embayment in the Harlem River. As they proceeded, Nora began to make out, through a screen of trees, a faint scattering of yellow lights about a quarter mile away.

She felt Caitlyn nudge her side. "Is that it?"

"I think so. Let's find out."

After a moment's hesitation, they continued down the hill, following the lane as it curved to take advantage of the topography. The trees grew denser, shutting out the faint glow of the city. The thin drone of traffic on the parkway receded. The lane curved again and something dark loomed ahead: an ancient chain — link fence, much abused, barred further access. A large hole in the fence had been patched with a crisscrossing mass of razor wire. In the center of the fence stood a gate, a crudely lettered sign affixed to it:

"This is a city street," said Nora. "This isn't legal. Be sure you put that in your article."

"Not much of a street though, is it?" Caitlyn replied. "Anyway, the whole complex isn't strictly legal. They're squatters."

Nora examined the gate. It was wrought iron, black paint peeling from it, the metal underneath pitted and bubbling with rust. A row of spikes ran across the upper edge of its frame, but half of the spikes had either broken or fallen off. Despite the appearance of antiquity, Nora noticed that the gate's hinges were well oiled and its chain and padlock were quite new. No sound came through the trees.

"Easier to climb over the fence than the gate," Nora said.

"Yeah."

Neither moved.

"You really think this is a good idea?" asked Caitlyn.

Before she had a chance to change her mind, Nora took the initiative, grasping the rusted chain link with her hands and jamming her toes into the gaps, pulling herself up as quickly as she could. The fence was about ten feet tall. Brackets along the upper edge indicated that it had once been topped by strands of barbed wire, which had disappeared long ago.

In half a minute, she was over. She dropped to the soft leaves on the other side, panting. "Your turn," she said.

Caitlyn grasped the links and did the same. She wasn't in nearly as good shape as Nora, but managed to struggle over, sliding down the far side with a quiet rattle of metal. "Whew," she said as she brushed away leaves and rust.

Nora peered into the dimness ahead. "Better to go through the woods than follow the road," she whispered.

"No argument here."

Moving gingerly, trying not to rustle the leaves, Nora moved off the road to the right, where a dark gully ran downhill through oak trees toward the edge of a cleared area. She could hear Caitlyn behind her, moving cautiously. The gully soon became steep, and Nora paused from time to time to peer ahead. It was dark in the woods, but she knew they couldn't use the flashlight. She had every reason to believe the people inside the Ville were alert to intruders and might investigate a light bobbing in the woods.

The gully gradually leveled out as they approached the flat area marking the edge of a field around the Ville itself. Abruptly, the trees ended and the dead field stretched before them, ending at the rear of the massive, ancient church, attached to — and perhaps even held up by — its helter — skelter accretion of dependent buildings. A chill wind blew across the field, and Nora could hear the rattle of dry weeds.

"My God," she heard Caitlyn murmur beside her.

This time, Nora had approached the Ville from the opposite side. From the closer perspective, she could see that the bizarre structure was even more rough — hewn than she'd thought. In the pale glow reflected from the night sky, she could almost make out the adze marks on the massive timbers that made up the ribs of the fortress. The central church seemed to have been built in successive layers, each higher layer slightly overhanging that below it, forming an inverted ziggurat that looked perverse and menacing. The vast majority of windows were far up in its flanks. Those not bricked up were filled with old ship's glass, pale green, though some appeared to be covered in oilcloth or waxed paper. This close, the impression of candlelight from the far side of the windows was unmistakable. A single window — small and rectangular — was placed at eye level, as if just for them.

"Unbelievable that a place like this could still exist in Manhattan," she said.

"Unbelievable it could still exist at all. What do we do?"

"Wait. See if anyone's around."

"How long?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes. Enough time for a guard, if there is one, to make his rounds. Then we might move in closer. Be sure to take note of everything. We want West Sider readers to really get an eyeful."

"Right," said Caitlyn, her voice quavering, her hand clutching her notebook.

Nora settled down to wait. As she shifted, she felt the rough charm around her neck scratch her skin. She drew it out, looked at it. It looked as strange as the fetishes that had been left outside her apartment: tufts of feathers, the bundle of chamois. Pendergast had pressed it upon her, made her promise to wear it, promise to keep the flannel bag always on her person. New Orleans bred or not, he didn't seem like the type to believe in voodoo — did he? She let it drop back, feeling faintly silly, glad the reporter hadn't noticed.

A faint noise put her on high alert. It had just started out of the darkness, a low drone like the sound of monstrous cicadas, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from the church. It grew louder and clearer: the sound of deep singing. No, not singing exactly — more like chanting.

"You hear that?" Caitlyn asked, voice suddenly tight.

Nora nodded.

The sound swelled, growing in volume while deepening in timbre. It quavered, rising and falling in a complex rhythm. Nora saw Caitlyn shiver, draw her jacket more tightly around her shoulders.

As they waited, listening intently, the chanting grew faster, more insistent. Now it began to rise in pitch, little by little.

"Oh shit, I don't like this at all," said Caitlyn.

Nora put an arm around the reporter's shoulders. "Just sit tight. Nobody knows we're here. We're invisible in the dark."

"I shouldn't have agreed to come. This was a bad idea."

Nora could feel the woman shaking. She marveled at her own lack of fear. She had Bill's death to thank for that. It wasn't fearlessness, exactly, so much as feeling dead to fear. After his death, what could be worse? Her own death would be a kind of release.

The chanting grew in urgency, faster and faster. And then a new noise intruded — the bleating of a goat.

"Oh, no," Nora muttered. She tightened her arm around Caitlyn.

Another plaintive bleat. The chanting was now high and fast, almost like a machine, the humming of a huge dynamo.