Cemetery Dance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online Page B

sprouting up through a web of cracks. Proctor pulled the vehicle up to the main entrance and D'Agosta heaved himself out, already regretting leaving the cushy seats behind. Pendergast followed. Entering the facility via a pair of dingy Plexiglas doors, they found themselves in a lobby smelling of moldy carpet and aging mashed potatoes. A handwritten sign on a wooden stand in the center of the lobby read:
    Visitors MUST Check In!
    A scrawled arrow pointed to a corner, where a desk was manned by a woman reading Cosmopolitan. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.
    D'Agosta removed his shield. "Lieutenant D'Agosta, Special Agent —"
    "Visiting hours are from ten to two," she said from behind the magazine.
    "Excuse me. We're police officers." D'Agosta just wasn't going to take any more shit from anyone, not on this case.
    The woman finally put down the magazine and stared at them.
    D'Agosta let her stare at his badge for a moment, then he returned it to his suit pocket. "We're here to see Mrs. Gladys Fearing."
    "All right." The woman pressed an intercom button and bawled into it. "Cops here to see Fearing!" She turned back to them with a face that had gone from slatternly to unexpectedly eager. "What happened? Somebody commit a crime?"
    Pendergast leaned forward, adopting a confidential manner. "As a matter of fact, yes."
    Her eyes widened.
    "Murder," Pendergast whispered.
    The woman gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. "Where? Here?"
    "New York City."
    "Was it Mrs. Fearing's son?"
    "You mean Colin Fearing?"
    D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. Where the hell is he going?
    Pendergast straightened up, adjusted his tie. "You know Colin well?"
    "Not really."
    "But he visited regularly, did he not? Last week, for example?"
    "I don't think so." The woman pulled over a register book, flipped through it. "No."
    "It must have been the week before." Pendergast leaned over to look at the book.
    She continued flipping through it, Pendergast's silvery eyes on the pages. "Nope. Last time he visited was in … February. Eight months ago."
    "Really!"
    "Look for yourself." She turned the book around so Pendergast could see. He examined the scrawled signature, then began flipping back to the beginning of the book, his eyes taking in every page. He straightened up. "It seems he didn't visit often."
    "Nobody visits often."
    "And her daughter?"
    "I didn't know she even had a daughter. Never visited."
    Pendergast laid a kindly hand on her massive shoulder. "In answer to your question, yes, Colin Fearing is dead."
    She paused, eyes growing wide. "Murdered?"
    "We don't know the cause of his death yet. So no one's told his mother?"
    "Nobody. I don't think anyone here knew. But …" She hesitated. "You're not here to tell her, are you?"
    "Not exactly."
    "I don't think you should. Why ruin the last few months of her life? I mean, he hardly ever visited, and he never stayed long. She won't miss him."
    "What was he like?"
    She made a face. "I wouldn't want a son like him."
    "Indeed? Please explain."
    "Rude. Nasty. He called me Big Bertha." She flushed.
    "Outrageous! And what is your name, my dear?"
    "Jo–Ann." She hesitated. "You won't tell Mrs. Fearing about his death, will you?"
    "Very compassionate of you, Jo–Ann. And now, may we see Mrs. Fearing?"
    "Where is that aide?" She was about to press the intercom again, then thought better of it. "I'll take you myself. Follow me. I ought to warn you: Mrs. Fearing's pretty batty."
    "Batty," Pendergast repeated. "I see."
    The woman struggled up from her chair, most eager to be of help. They followed her down a long, dim linoleum corridor, assaulted by more disagreeable smells: human elimination, boiled food, vomit. Each door they passed presented its own suite of noises: mumbling, groaning, frantic loud talking, snoring.
    The woman paused at an open door and knocked. "Mrs. Fearing?"
    "Go away," came the feeble answer.
    "Some gentlemen to see you, Mrs. Fearing!" Jo–Ann tried to muster a