They slipped into a dark entryway. When Pendergast shut the door, the darkness turned to pitch black. Pendergast snapped on a small penlight and shined it around. The entryway gave onto a small, shabby parlor to the left and a dining room to the right. Straight ahead was a door leading in the direction of the church. Pendergast stepped up, placed his ear to that door as well, then gestured for Coldmoon to do the same.
When Coldmoon did, he could hear, through the door, the throbbing of voices—a monophonic, ritualistic chanting, slowly rising and falling.
They retreated from the door. “A cappella,” Coldmoon murmured. “Nice.”
“There are usually two doors from a rectory to a church,” Pendergast whispered in return. “One for the public entrance of the minister, and one for the private entrance. Let us seek the private one.”
They went into the dining room, then through it to a small kitchen. The flashlight’s pencil beam illuminated a plastic jeroboam sitting on a counter, full of some unknown liquid. Pendergast swiped a glass from a shelf, held it under the container’s spigot, and turned it.
A thick red stream came out.
“Holy shit,” said Coldmoon, taking an involuntary step backward.
Pendergast slipped out a test tube, swabbed blood out of the glass, placed the swab in the tube, then stoppered it and returned it to his suit coat. He moved to a door at the far end of the room. Coldmoon watched as he tested the handle: unlocked.
He cracked it open ever so slightly, and the sound of chanting grew louder. A reddish light filtered through the crack. Pendergast stood there for a moment, then motioned for Coldmoon to take a look.
Beyond lay the sacristy, and beyond that the apse of the church. Where the altar would normally have been there was now a stage, and on the stage was a group of about half a dozen naked people moving in a slow circle, hands above their heads, chanting—and drenched in blood. Most were old and overweight, the men bald, the women with peroxided hair—on their heads, at least. In the middle of the circle was a pentagram with bizarre symbols chalked on its arms. Roaming about the stage was a woman, also naked and covered in blood. A macabre-looking necklace, from which dangled demonic-looking faces stamped in gold, hung from her neck. She held a brush and a copper pot, and periodically she dipped the brush into the pot, then splattered it over the dancers like a basting mop. It appeared to Coldmoon that the pot was full of blood.
Beyond the stage, in the dim crimson light, was a small audience of similar age. As the chanting grew in intensity, the audience members, too, began to shed their clothes, then gather in groups of two and three, fondling and caressing each other as they watched the ritual.
Pendergast retreated from the door and Coldmoon followed.
“Are those Satanic rites?” Coldmoon asked. He felt sick.
“Something of the sort,” said Pendergast in a disgusted voice. In the reflected reddish glow, he looked disappointed, if not downright crestfallen.
“Isn’t that what you were expecting?” Coldmoon asked. “Looks like the orgy’s starting up any minute.”
“I fear I may have miscalculated.” Pendergast paused. “These people are…amateurs.”
“Amateurs? Looks pretty damn serious to me.”
At this point, the chanting abruptly slackened. Pendergast hurried to the door, glanced through the crack, then turned to Coldmoon. “Quick, over here. She’s coming.”
Pendergast and Coldmoon slipped into a dark closet, then half closed the door. A moment later, the woman with the pot came in, fiddled briefly with the spigot—having some difficulty in the dark—then left the way she had come. Obviously, she had refilled the pot with blood.
A sudden loud pounding sounded on the front door of the church, followed by a voice amplified through a megaphone: “FBI, executing a search warrant! Open up! This is the FBI!”
“Right on time,” said Pendergast grimly.
A second later came the boom of a ram, then another, mingled with the screams and surprised cries of the participants and their audience. The main doors flew open, splintering on their hinges, and agents poured in.
“FBI!” yelled the man with the megaphone, whose voice Coldmoon recognized as Agent Carracci’s. “Everyone on the ground! On the fucking ground! Do it now! Show your hands!”
At this, Pendergast opened the door wide and strode out through the sacristy, Coldmoon following. The naked group was hastily obeying, getting down on the floor amid slicks of blood. Coldmoon watched as the agents fanned out, weapons drawn, making sure everyone was unarmed and cooperating.