Dance Of Death

FORTY-FOUR

The wintry scene could not have been more bleak: a thin snow had fallen on the cemetery the night before, and now a bitter wind blew through the bare trees, rattling the branches and sending wisps of snow whipping across the frozen ground. The grave itself looked like a black wound in the earth, surrounded by bright green Astroturf laid on the snow, with a second Astroturf carpet laid over the pile of dirt. The coffin rested beside the hideous hole, strapped to a machine that would lower it into the grave. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers stood about, jittering in the wind, adding a surreal fecundity to the frozen scene.

Nora could not take her gaze from the coffin. Wherever she turned, she always seemed drawn back to it. It was a highly polished affair, with brass handles and trim. Nora couldn't accept that her friend, her new friend, lay inside. Dead. How terrible to think that, just a few days before, she and Margo had been enjoying dinner together in Margo's apartment, chatting about the museum.

That same night she had been murdered.

And then, yesterday, the very disturbing, very urgent call from Pendergast…

She shivered uncontrollably, took a few deep breaths. Her fingers were freezing even through her gloves, and her nose felt like it had lost all sensation. She was so cold that she thought the tears might freeze on her face.

The minister, dressed in a long black down coat, was reading Rite One of the Burial of the Dead from the Book of Common Prayer, his voice sonorous in the freezing air. A large crowd had turned out- amazingly large when you considered the weather. An enormous quantity of people had come from the museum. Margo had clearly made a large impression even during her short tenure there: but then, she had also been a graduate student there years before. Standing near the front was the museum's director, Collopy, with a stunningly beautiful wife even younger than Nora. Most of the Anthropology Department had showed up, except for those who were supervising the desperate last-minute work on the Sacred Images show: the opening gala was this evening. She herself should have stayed at the show, but she would never have forgiven herself if she'd missed Margo's funeral. There was Prine, bundled up like an Eskimo and dabbing at his bright red nose with a cotton handkerchief; the security director, Manetti, looking genuinely stricken, probably feeling that Margo's death had been a personal failure. Her eye roamed the crowd. A quietly weeping woman stood at the front, supported on either side by ushers: no doubt Margo's mother. She had Margo's light brown hair, her same fine features and slim build. She seemed to be the only member of Margo's family-and Nora remembered Margo saying at dinner that she was an only child.

A particularly strong gust of wind rattled through the cemetery, temporarily overwhelming the minister's voice. Then it returned: "Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend thy servant Margo, our dear sister, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Savior, beseeching thee that she may be precious in thy sight…"

Nora bent against the bitter wind and drew her coat tighter as she listened to the sad, soothing words. She wished with all her heart that Bill was there with her. The bizarre telephone call from Pendergast-and it was Pendergast, she had no doubt-had left her shaken. Bill's life threatened, and he in hiding? And now her own life in danger? It all seemed incredible, frightening, as if a dark cloud had descended on her world. And yet the evidence was directly in front of her. Margo was dead.

A humming noise broke her black reverie. The machine was lowering Margo's coffin into the grave with a grinding of gears and the whirring of a motor. The minister's voice raised slightly as the coffin descended. Making the sign of the cross with an upraised hand, he read the last words of the service. With a faint thump, the coffin came to rest, and then the minister invited Margo's mother to throw in a clod of dirt. She did so, and some others followed, the frozen clods making a disturbingly hollow sound as they struck the coffin lid.

Nora felt as if her heart would break. Her friendship with Margo, which had gotten off to such a bad start, had just begun to blossom. Her death was a tragedy in the truest sense of the word-she was so brave, so full of conviction.

The service over, the crowd began to drift back toward the narrow cemetery lane where their cars waited, frosty breath rising in the air. Nora checked her watch: ten o'clock. She had to get back to the museum immediately, to work on the final preparations for the opening.

As she turned to leave, she saw a man dressed in black approach obliquely; a few more moments and he had fallen into step beside her. He looked haggard with grief, and she wondered if Margo didn't have other close relatives, after all.

"Nora?" came the low voice.

Nora was startled. She paused.

"Keep walking, please."

She kept walking, feeling mounting alarm. "Who are you?"

"Agent Pendergast. Why are you out in the open after my warning?"

"I have to live my life."

"You can't live a life if you've lost it."

Nora sighed. "I want to know what's happened to Bill."

"Bill is safe, as I explained. It is you I'm worried about. You're a prime target."

"Target of what?"

"I can't tell you that. What I can tell you is that you must take steps to protect yourself. You should be afraid."

"Agent Pendergast, I am afraid. Your call scared me half to death. But you can't expect me to drop everything. As I told you, I've got an opening I've got to prepare for tonight."

A sharp, exasperated exhalation. "He's killing everyone around me. He will kill you, too. And then you'll miss not only your opening but the rest of your life."

The voice, far from the honeyed drawl she remembered, was tense and urgent.

"I have to take the risk. I'll be in the museum the rest of the day, under high security in the exhibit. And then I'll be at the opening tonight, surrounded by thousands."

"High security did not stop him before."

"Who is this him?"

"As I've said, to tell you more would only put you at greater risk. Oh, Nora, what must I do to protect you?"

She faltered, shocked at the near despair in his voice. "I'm sorry. Look, it's just not in my nature to run and hide. I've worked too long for this opening. People are counting on me. Okay? Tomorrow- let's take this up again tomorrow. Just not today."

"So be it." The anonymous figure turned away-strange how little he looked like the Pendergast Nora remembered-melted into the dark dusters of people walking toward their cars, and was gone.