Dance Of Death

TWENTY-ONE

IT was quarter to eight when Smithback emerged from his apartment building, glanced up West End Avenue, and stretched out his hand for a taxi. A beat-up yellow cab that had been idling at the far end of the block pulled forward obediently, and Smithback got in with a sigh of regret.

"Forty-fourth and Seventh," he said. The driver-a thin, olive-skinned man with black hair and a bad complexion-muttered a few words in some unknown tongue and screeched away from the curb.

Smithback settled back, glancing out at the passing cityscape. By rights, he should still be in bed, arms around his new wife, deliriously asleep. But the image of Harriman, sitting in their editor's office with that insufferably smug look on his face, had spurred him into rising early to flog the story some more.

You'll both share information and leads, Davies had said. Hell with that. Smithback knew Harriman wasn't planning to share jack shit, and for that matter neither was he. He'd check in at the office, make sure nothing disagreeable had happened overnight, and then hit the pavement. The article he'd turned in the night before had been weak, and he had to get something better. He had to, even if it meant buying a damn apartment in Duchamp's building. Now, there was an idea: calling a real estate agent and posing as a prospective buyer…

The driver turned sharply left onto 72nd. "Hey, watch it," Smithback said. "I'm nursing a war wound back here." For once, the driver had closed the shield of Plexiglas that separated the front from the back. The cab stank of garlic, onions, and cumin, and Smithback opened the rear window. As usual, the damn thing only went down about a third of the way. Smithback's mood, already low, fell lower.

It was probably just as well he'd left the apartment ninety minutes early. Nora had been in a foul mood for several days now, getting hardly any sleep and working at the museum until well past midnight. That, plus the frosty exchange between her and Margo Green the other night at the Bones, was weighing on him heavily. Margo was an old friend and it pained him the two didn't get along. They're too much alike, he thought. Strong-willed and smart.

Ahead lay the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Instead of turning south onto the highway and heading toward Midtown, the driver gunned the cab up the merge ramp onto the northbound lanes.

"What the hell?" Smithback said. "Hey, you're going the wrong way!"

In response, the driver jammed down harder on the accelerator, veering past blaring horns and into the far left lane.

Shit, the guy's English is worse than I thought. Smithback pounded on the heavy shield of scratched Plexiglas. "You're going the wrong way. Okay? The-wrong-way. I said 44th Street. Get off at 95th and turn around!"

The driver didn't respond. Instead, he continued to accelerate, weaving in and out of lanes as he passed car after car. The 95th Street exit came and went in a flash.

Smithback's mouth went dry. Jesus, am I being kidnapped or something? He grabbed for the door lock, but as with most cabs the outer knob had been removed and the pull itself was engaged, sunk beneath the level of the window frame.

He renewed his frantic tattoo against the Plexiglas shield. "Stop the car!" he yelled as the cab squealed around a bend. "Let me out!"

When there was no answer, Smithback reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to dial 911.

"Put that thing away, Mr. Smithback," came the voice from the front seat. "You're in good hands, I assure you."

Smithback froze in the act of dialing. He knew that voice: knew it well. But it certainly didn't belong to the Mediterranean-looking man in the front seat.

"Pendergast?" he said incredulously.

The man nodded. He was looking in the rearview mirror, scanning the cars behind them.

The fear abated-slowly, slowly-to be replaced by surprise. Pendergast, Smithback thought. Oh, God. Why do I get a sinking feeling every lime I run into him?

"So the rumors were wrong," he said.

"Of my death? Most certainly."

Smithback guessed they were going at least a hundred miles an hour. Cars were flashing past, vague shapes and blurs of color.

"You mind telling me what's going on? Or why you're in disguise? You look like a fugitive from a Turkish prison-if you don't mind my saying so," he added hastily.

Pendergast glanced again in the rearview mirror. "I'm taking you to a place of safety."

This didn't immediately register. "You're taking me where?"

"You're a marked man. There's a dangerous killer after you. The nature of the threat forces me to take unusual measures."

Smithback opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Alarm, incredulity, astonishment, mingled in equal measures within him. The 125th Street exit passed in a heartbeat.

Smithback found his voice. "A killer after me? What for?"

"The more you know, the more dangerous it will be for you."

"How do you know I'm in danger? I haven't pissed off anybody- not lately, anyway."

To the left, the North River Control Plant shot by. Glancing uneasily to his right, Smithback thought he caught the briefest glimpse of 891 Riverside Drive-ancient, shadow-haunted-rising above the greenery of Riverside Park.

The car was moving so fast now the tires barely seemed to touch the road. Smithback looked around for a seat belt, but the cab had none. Cars flashed past as if stationary. What the hell kind of an engine does this thing have? He swallowed. "I'm not going anywhere until I know what's going on. I'm a married man now."

"Nora will be fine. She'll be told you're on assignment for the Times and will be incommunicado for a while. I'll see to that myself."

"Yeah, and what about the Times? I'm in the middle of an important assignment."

"They will hear from a doctor of your sudden, serious illness."

"Oh, no. No way. The Times is a dog-eat-dog place. It doesn't matter if I'm sick or dying, I'll lose the assignment."

"There will be other assignments."

"Not like this one. Look, Mr. Pendergast, the answer is-shit!"

Smithback braced himself as the cab whipped around a cluster of cars, weaving across three lanes, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear-ending a lumbering truck and shooting back into the fast lane. Smithback gripped the seat, silenced by terror.

Pendergast glanced once again in the rearview mirror. Looking around, Smithback could see-four or five cars back-a black Mercedes, weaving in and out of the traffic, pacing them.

Smithback faced forward again, feeling a rush of panic. Ahead on the shoulder, an NYPD cruiser had pulled over a van and the officer was out writing a ticket. As they flew past, Smithback saw the cop whirl around in disbelief, then run back to his cruiser.

"For God's sake, slow down," he choked out, but if Pendergast heard him, he gave no response.

Smithback glanced back again. Despite the awful speed, the black Mercedes wasn't falling behind. If anything, it seemed to be gaining. It had heavily tinted windows, and he could not make out the driver.

Ahead were signs for Interstate 95 and the George Washington Bridge. "Brace yourself, Mr. Smithback," Pendergast said over the roar of the engine and the screaming of wind.

Smithback seized a door handle, planted his feet on the plastic floor mats. He was so frightened he could hardly think.

Traffic had begun to thicken as the two-lane exit approached, one stream of cars heading for the bridge and New Jersey, the other heading eastward toward the Bronx. Pendergast slowed, alternatelywatching the traffic ahead and the Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Then, seizing an opportunity, he sheared across all four lanes of traffic onto the right shoulder. A squeal of brakes and a torrent of angry horns erupted, Doppler-shifting lower as Pendergast jammed on the accelerator again, blasting up the narrow shoulder, sending loose trash and hubcaps flying behind them.

"Holy shit!" Smithback yelled.

Ahead, the shoulder narrowed, the curb of the median angling in from the right. But instead of slowing, Pendergast pushed the car relentlessly forward. The tires on the passenger side reared up onto the curb and the vehicle charged ahead at an unwieldy angle, rocking crazily back and forth, tires squealing, the stone wall of the exit perilously close at hand.

From behind came the faint wail of a siren.

Pendergast braked abruptly, then turned into a brutal, four-wheel power slide, just merging into a hole in the traffic converging on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. He changed lanes once-so fast Smithback was thrown sideways on the seat-twice, a third time, darting back and forth, all the while accelerating. The car blasted along beneath the hulking apartments like a bullet through the barrel of a gun.

A quarter mile ahead, a sea of red lights winked back out of the gloom as traffic bunched up in the inevitable gridlock of the Cross Bronx Expressway. The right-hand lane was blocked off by orange cones, signs announcing a highway repair project that-typically- was empty and unmanned. Pendergast veered into the lane, scattering cones left and right.

Smithback glanced back. The black Mercedes was still there, no more than six cars back, pacing them despite all Pendergast could do. Much farther behind now were two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Suddenly, Smithback was thrown to one side. Pendergast had abruptly veered onto the off-ramp for the Harlem River Drive. Instead of slowing, he maintained a speed close to a hundred miles an hour. With a shriek of stressed rubber, the car drifted sideways, its flank contacting the stone retaining wall that encircled the ramp.

There was a scream of ripping steel, and an explosion of sparks flew backward.

"Son of a bitch! You're going to kill-!"

Smithback's voice was cut off as Pendergast braked violently once again. With a bucking motion, the car shot over a divider onto the opposing entrance helix to a small bridge spanning the Harlem River. The vehicle fishtailed wildly before Pendergast regained control. Then he accelerated yet again as they shot over the river and into a tangle of narrow streets leading toward the South Bronx.

Heart in mouth, Smithback glanced once again over his shoulder. Impossibly, the Mercedes was still there, farther back now but gaining once again. Even as he watched, the driver's window of the Mercedes opened and there was a sudden puff of smoke, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

With a thunk!, the passenger side mirror vanished in a spray of glass and plastic, annihilated by a high-caliber bullet.

"Shit!" Smithback screamed.

"Get down," Pendergast said, but Smithback was already on the floor, hands over his head.

From this position, the nightmare was even worse: unable to see anything, Smithback could only imagine the chaos of the chase, the violent changes of direction, the screeching of tires, the roar of the engine, the blaring of horns, snatches of cursing in English and Spanish. And above it all, the ever-growing wail of police sirens. Again and again, he was thrown forward against the undersupports of the front seat as Pendergast braked violently; again and again, he was thrown back as the agent accelerated.

After a few endless minutes, Pendergast spoke again. "I need you to get up, Mr. Smithback. Do so carefully."

Smithback rose, gripping the seat. The car was racing along a wide avenue through an impoverished barrio of the Bronx, darting from left to right. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the Mercedes still pacing them, swerving back and forth among slow-moving delivery vans and lowriders. Farther back were strung out at least half a dozen police cars.

"We're going to be stopping in a moment," Pendergast said. "It is imperative that you follow me out of the car as quickly as possible."

"Follow-?" Smithback was so terrorized his mind had stopped working.

"Just do as I say, please. Stay right behind me. Right behind me. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Smithback croaked.

Ahead, the road ended in a vast fence of barbed wire and metal pipe, interrupted only by a heavy gate directly before them. The fence enclosed at least five acres of cars, SUVs, and vans, squeezed impossibly close to one another, extending from one end of the fence to the other, a sea of vehicles, all makes and models and vintages. They were all packed so tightly not even a scooter could get between them. Atop the gate was a battered sign that read Division of Motor Vehicles-Mott Haven Impound Facility.

Pendergast plucked a small remote control from one pocket and punched a code onto its keypad. Slowly, the gate began to open. When Pendergast did not reduce speed, Smithback clasped the door handle again and clenched his teeth.

The car blew past the gate with an inch to spare and, with a shuddering squeal of brakes, spun sideways and stopped at the wall of cars. Without bothering to turn off the engine, Pendergast leaped out and took off, with a brusque wave for Smithback to follow. The reporter tumbled out of the backseat and dashed after Pendergast, who was already running through the maze of cars. They made directly for the rear of the facility, running and dodging through the sea of parked vehicles. Smithback could barely keep up with the agent flying along in front of him.

It was close to a half-mile sprint to the rear wall of the impound facility. At last, Pendergast stopped at the final row of vehicles, which were parked a few dozen yards in from the rear of the yard, blocked by the same heavy steel pipe fence. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a battered Chevy van parked in the last row and gestured for Smithback to get in the back. Pendergast leaped behind the wheel, turned the key, and the van roared to life.

"Hold on," he said. Then he put the van in gear and shot forward, accelerating directly toward the pipe fence.

"Wait," Smithback said. "You'll never bash through that fence. We'll be-oh, shit!" He turned away, shielding his face from the inevitable catastrophic impact.

There was a loud clang; a brief jolt; but the van was still accelerating forward. Smithback raised his head and lowered his arms, heart pounding, and looked back. He saw that a section of the fence had been knocked away, leaving a clean rectangular hole in its place.

"The metal pipes had already been cut, then spot-welded back into place," Pendergast said by way of explanation, driving more slowly now, making a number of turns through a warren of side streets while removing his wig and wiping the stage makeup from his face with a silk handkerchief. The black Mercedes and the police cars were gone. "Help me with this."

Smithback climbed into the front seat and helped Pendergast pull off the cheap, stained brown polyester top, revealing a dress shirt and tie underneath.

"Hand me my jacket back there, if you'd be so kind."

Smithback pulled a beautifully pressed suit coat off a rack hanging behind the front seat. Pendergast slid into it quickly.

"You planned this whole thing, didn't you?" Smithback said.

Pendergast turned onto East 138th Street. "This is a case where advance preparation meant the difference between life and death."

All at once, Smithback understood the plan. "That guy who was after us-you lured him into the one place he couldn't follow. There's no way around that impound facility."

"There is a way around, yes, involving three miles of driving through congested side streets." Pendergast turned north, heading for the Sheridan Expressway.

"So who the hell was that? The man you say is trying to kill me?"

"As I said, the less you know, the better. Although I must say that the high-speed chase and the use of firearms were uncharacteristically crude of him. Perhaps he saw his opportunity evaporating and became desperate." He looked over at Smithback with a laconic expression. "Well, Mr. Smithback? Convinced?"

Smithback nodded slowly. "But why me? What'd I do?"

"That is, unfortunately, the very question I can't answer."

Smithback's heart was only now slowing down, and he felt as wrung out and limp as a dishrag. He'd been in tight spots with Pendergast before. Deep down, he knew the man wouldn't do something like this unless it was absolutely necessary. All of a sudden, his career at the Times seemed a lot less important.

"Hand me your cell phone and wallet, please."

Smithback did as requested. Pendergast shoved them in the glove compartment and handed him an expensive leather billfold.

"What's this?"

"Your new identity."

Smithback opened it. There was no money, only a Social Security card and a New York driver's license.

"Edward Murdhouse Jones?" he read off.

"Correct."

"Yes, but Jones? Come on, what a cliché."

"That's precisely why you'll have no trouble remembering it… Edward."

Smithback shoved the wallet in his back pocket. "How long is this going to last?"

"Not long, I hope."

"What do you mean not long? A day or two?"

No answer.

"Where the hell are you taking me, anyway?"

"River Oaks."

"River Oaks? The millionaire funny farm?"

"You are now the troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, a bit of undemanding therapy, and isolation from the hectic world."

"Hold on, I'm not checking into any mental hospital-"

"You'll find River Oaks to be quite luxurious. You'll have a private room, gourmet food, and elegant surroundings. The grounds are beautiful-pity they are buried in two feet of snow at the moment. There's a spa, library, game room, and every imaginable comfort. It's housed in a former Vanderbilt mansion in Ulster County. The director is a very sympathetic man. He'll be most solicitous, I assure you. Most important, it is utterly secure from the killer who is determined to end your life. I am sorry I can't tell you more, I really am."

Smithback sighed. "This director, he'll know all about me, right?"

"He's got all the information he could possibly need. You will be well treated. Indeed, you are guaranteed special treatment."

"No force-fed meds? Straitjackets? Shock therapy?"

Pendergast smiled faintly. "Nothing like that, trust me. You'll be waited on hand and foot. An hour of counseling a day, that's all. The director is fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. I've purchased some clothes that I think will fit you."

Smithback was silent a moment. "Gourmet food, you say?"

"As much as you could wish."

Smithback sat forward. "But Nora. She'll worry about me."

"As I mentioned, she'll be led to understand you are on a special assignment for the Times. Given the work she's doing for the opening, she'll hardly have time to think about you at all."

"If they're after me, she'll be in danger. I need to be there to protect her."

"I can tell you that Nora is in absolutely no danger at present. However, she will be in danger if you remain near her. Because you are the target. It is for her sake as much as yours that you must go into hiding. The farther away you are, the safer she'll be."

Smithback groaned. "This is going to be a disaster for my career."

"Your career will suffer more from your untimely death."

Smithback could feel the lump of the wallet in his back pocket. Edward Murdhouse Jones. "I'm sorry, but I don't like this at all."

"Like it or not, I'm saving your life."

Smithback did not reply.

"Are we clear on that, Mr. Smithback?"

"Yes," Smithback said, with a dreadful sinking feeling.