Dance Of Death

FORTY-TWO

The mansion at 891 Riverside Drive lay above one of the most complex geological areas of Manhattan. Here, beneath the litter-strewn streets, the bedrock of Hartland schist yielded to a different formation, the Cambrian Manhattan. The gneiss of the Manhattan Formation was particularly faulted and contorted, and riddled with weak areas, cracks, and natural tunnels. One such weak area, several centuries ago, had been enlarged to form the passage from the mansion's sub-basement to the weed-choked shore of the Hudson River. But there were other tunnels, older and more secret, that burrowed beneath the mansion into dark and unknown depths.

Unknown to all, that is, but one.

Constance Greene moved slowly through one of these tunnels, descending with practiced ease into the blackness. Though she held a torch in one slim hand, it was not lit: she knew these deep and hidden spaces so well that light was not necessary. The passage was frequently narrow enough to allow her to follow both walls with her outstretched hands. Though the tunnel was of natural rock, the ceiling was tall and quite regular, and the floor was even enough to appear almost like steps fashioned by man.

But only Constance had ever walked this way before.

Until a few days ago, she had hoped never to come here again. It was a reminder of the old times-the bad times-when she had seen things no living being should ever have to witness. When he had come, with violence and murder, and had taken from her the only human being she had known, a man who was like a father to her. The murderer had upended the ordered world she had grown so used to. She had fled here then, into the chill recesses of the earth. For a time, it seemed, sanity itself also fled, under the shock.

But her mind had been too carefully trained, over too many years, to ever become fully lost. Slowly, slowly, she came back. Once again, she grew interested in the ways of the waking, the living; once again, she began creeping back up to her old home, her world, the mansion at 891 Riverside. That was when she began watching the man named Wren and-finally-revealed herself to the kindly old gentleman.

Who, in turn, had brought her to Pendergast.

Pendergast. He had reintroduced her to the world, helped her move out of a shadowy past into a brighter present.

But the work was not yet done. All too well, she was aware of that tenuous line still separating her from instability. And now this had happened…

As she walked, Constance bit her lip to keep back a sob.

But it shall be all right, she tried to tell herself. It shall be all right. Aloysius had promised her so. And he could do anything, it seemed; even rise from the dead.

She had made a promise to him as well, and she would keep it: to spend her nights here, where not even Diogenes Pendergast could ever find her. She would keep her promise, despite the dreadful weight this place, and its memories, placed on her heart.

Ahead, the passage narrowed, then split into two. To the right, the tunnel kept corkscrewing down into darkness. To the left, a narrower way led off horizontally. Constance chose this passage, following its twists and turns for a hundred yards. Then she stopped and, at last, turned on the lamp.

Its yellow light revealed that the passage widened abruptly, dead-ending in a small, snug chamber, perhaps ten feet by six. Its floor was covered by an expensive Persian carpet, taken from one of the basement storage rooms of the mansion above. The lines of the bare rock walls were softened by reproductions of Renaissance paintings: Parmigianino's Madonna with the Long Neck, Giorgione's Tempest, half a dozen others. A cot was set into the rear of the niche, and a small table lay at one side. Works by Thackeray, Trollope, and George Eliot were stacked neatly beside Plato's Republic and St. Augustine's Confessions.

It was much warmer here, belowground. The air smelled, not unpleasantly, of rock and earth. Yet the relative warmth, the small attempts at domesticity, afforded Constance little comfort.

She set the lamp upon the table, sat down before it, and glanced to one side. There was a recess in the rock face here, perhaps three feet above the level of the floor. She pulled a leather-bound book from it: the most recent volume of a diary she had kept in the old days, when she had been the ward of Pendergast's ancestor.

She opened the diary and turned its pages over slowly, thoughtfully, until she reached the final entry. It was dated July of the previous year.

Constance read the entry once, then again, brushing away a stray tear as she did so. Then, with a quiet sigh, she replaced the diary into the recess, beside its mates.

Forty-two other volumes, identical in size and shape, stood there. While the closer volumes looked quite new, the ones farther along the recess grew increasingly cracked and worn with age.

Constance sat there, looking at them, her hand resting pensively on the edge of the niche. The movement had pulled back the material of her sleeve, exposing a long row of small, healed scars on her forearm: twenty or thirty identical marks, lined up precisely in parallel with one another.

With another sigh, she turned away. Then she extinguished the light and-saying a brief prayer to the close and watchful darkness-she stole toward the cot, turned her face to the wall, and lay down, eyes open, preparing herself as best she could for the nightmares that would inevitably come.