Dance Of Death

THIRTY-SIX

A watery winter light was fading over the river as D'Agosta reached the old door on Hudson Street. He paused for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. He'd followed Pendergast's complicated instructions to the letter. The agent had moved yet again-he seemed determined to keep one step ahead of Diogenes-and D'Agosta wondered, with a dull curiosity, what disguise he had assumed now.

Finally, having composed himself and taken one last look around to make sure there was no one near, he tapped on the door seven times and waited. A moment later, it was opened by a man who, from all appearances, was a derelict in the last stages of addiction. Even though D'Agosta knew this was Pendergast, he was startled- once again-by the effectiveness of his appearance.

Without a word, Pendergast ushered him in, padlocked the door behind him, and led him down a dank stairwell to a noisome basement room filled by a large boiler and heating pipes. An oversize cardboard carton piled with soiled blankets, a plastic milk crate with a candle and some dishware, and a neat stack of tinned food completed the picture.

Pendergast swiped a rag from the floor, exposing an iMac G5 with a Bluetooth wireless Internet connection. Beside it lay a well-thumbed stack of papers: the photocopied case file that D'Agosta had purloined from headquarters, along with other reports that, D'Agosta assumed, were from the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. Clearly, Pendergast had been studying everything with great care.

"I…" D'Agosta didn't quite know how to begin. He felt rage take hold once again. "That bastard. That son of a bitch. My God, to murder Margo-"

He fell silent. Words just couldn't convey the shaking fury, turmoil, and disbelief he felt inside. He hadn't known Margo was back in New York, let alone working at the museum, but he'd known her well in years past. They'd worked together on the museum and subway murders. She'd been a brave, resourceful, intelligent woman. She hadn't deserved to go out like this: stalked and killed in a darkened exhibition hall.

Pendergast was silent as he rapped at the computer keyboard. But his face was bathed in sweat, and D'Agosta could see that was not part of the act. He was feeling it, too.

"Diogenes lied when he said Smithback would be the next victim," D'Agosta said.

Without looking up, Pendergast reached into the crate and pulled out a ziplock bag with a tarot card and a note inside, handing it to D'Agosta.

He glanced at the tarot card. It depicted a tall, orange brick tower, being struck by multiple bolts of lightning. It was afire, and tiny figures were falling from its turrets toward the grass far beneath. He turned his attention to the note.

Ave, frater!

Since when did I ever tell you the truth? One would think after all these years you'd have learned by now I am a skillful liar. While you were busy hiding the braggart Smithback-and I commend you for your cleverness there, for I haven't yet found him-I was free to plot the death of Margo Green. Who, by the way, put up a most spirited struggle.

Wasn't it all so very clever of me?

I'll tell you a secret, brother: I'm in a confessional mood. And so I will name my next victim: Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta.

Amusing, what? Am I telling the truth? Am I lying again? What a delicious conundrum for you, dear brother.

I bid you, not adieu, but au revoir.

Diogenes

D'Agosta handed the note back to Pendergast. He felt a strange sensation in his gut. It wasn't fear-no, not fear at all-but a fresh groundswell of hatred. He was shaking with it.

"Bring the motherfucker on," he said.

"Have a seat, Vincent. We have very little time."

It was the first thing Pendergast had said, and D'Agosta was silenced by the deep seriousness in his voice. He eased himself down onto a crate.

"What's with the tarot card?" he asked.

"It's the Tower, from El Gran Tarot Esotérico variant of the deck. The card is said to indicate destruction, a time of sudden change."

"No kidding."

"I've spent all day compiling a list of potential victims and making arrangements for their protection. I've had to call in virtually every favor I'm owed, which will have the unfortunate collateral effect of blowing my cover. Those I have dealt with have promised to keep things to themselves, but it's only a matter of time before the news will come out that I'm alive. Vincent, take a look at this list."

D'Agosta leaned over and looked at the document on the screen. On it were a lot of names he recognized, along with many others he didn't know.

"Is there anyone else you feel should be on here?"

D'Agosta stared at the list. "Hayward." The thought of her sent a twinge through his gut.

"Hayward is the one person I know whom Diogenes will certainly not target. There are reasons for this that I cannot yet explain to you."

"And what about…" D'Agosta hesitated. Pendergast was an extremely private person and he wondered how he would react to him mentioning her name. "Viola Maskelene?"

"I have thought a great deal about her," he said in a low tone. He looked down at his white hands. "She's still on the island of Capraia, which in many ways is a perfect fortress for her. It's almost impossible to get to, involving several days' travel. There's only one small harbor, and a stranger-no matter how disguised-would be instantly noted. Diogenes is here in New York. He can't reach her quickly, nor would he ever operate with a proxy. And finally"-his voice dropped-"Diogenes can know nothing of my-my interest in her. No one else in the world but you are aware of that. As far as Diogenes is concerned, she's simply a person I interviewed once with regard to a violin. On the other hand, if I were to take steps to protect her, it might actually alert Diogenes to her existence."

"I can see that."

"So in her case I have opted to leave things as is."

He unclasped his hands. "I have taken steps to protect the others, whether they like it or not. Which brings us to the most difficult question: what about you, Vincent?"

"I'm not going into hiding. As I said, bring him on. I'll be the bait. I'd rather die than run like a dog from Margo's killer."

"I'm not going to argue with you. The risk you're taking is enormous-you know that."

"I certainly do. And I'm prepared for it."

"I believe you are. Margo's attack was patterned after the murder of a spinster aunt of mine, who was stabbed in the back with a pearl-handled letter opener by a disgruntled servant. It's still possible that there's evidence from the scene of the attack that can help lead us to Diogenes-I'll need your help there. When word of my continuing existence reaches the police, there is going to be a serious problem."

"How so?"

Pendergast shook his head. "When the time comes, you'll understand. How long you choose to stay with me is, of course, up to you. At a certain point, I intend to take the law into my own hands. I would never entrust Diogenes to the criminal justice system."

D'Agosta nodded brusquely. "I'm with you all the way."

"The worst is yet to come. For me, and especially for you."

"That bastard killed Margo. End of discussion."

Pendergast placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Vincent. One of the best."

D'Agosta did not respond. He was wondering at Pendergast's enigmatic words.

"I've arranged for all who might be likely targets of Diogenes to go to ground. That is phase one. And this brings us to phase two: stopping Diogenes. My initial plan failed utterly. It has been said: 'When you lose, don't lose the lesson.' The lesson here is that I cannot defeat my brother alone. I assumed that I knew him best, that I could predict his next move, that with enough evidence I could stop him myself. I've been proven wrong-devastatingly so. I need help."

"You've got me."

"Yes, and I'm grateful. But I was referring to another kind of help. Professional help."

"Like what?"

"I'm too close to Diogenes. I'm not objective, and I'm not calm-especially now. I have learned the hard way that I don't understand my brother and never have. What I need is an expert psychological profiler to create a forensic model of my brother. It will be an extraordinarily difficult task, as he is a psychologically unique individual."

"I know of several excellent forensic profilers."

"Not just any will do. I need one who is truly exceptional." He turned and began scribbling a note. "Go to the Riverside Drive house and give this to my man Proctor, who will pass it on to Constance. If this individual exists, Constance will find him."

D'Agosta took the note, folded it into his pocket.

"We're almost out of time: two days until January 28."

"Any idea yet what the date could mean?"

"None, except that it will be the climax of my brother's crime."

"How do you know he isn't lying about the date, too?"

Pendergast paused. "I don't. But instinct tells me it's real. And at the moment, that's all I have left: instinct."