Dance Of Death

FORTY-SIX

Viola woke with a splitting headache. For a moment, she stared blankly, uncomprehendingly, at the frilled top of a canopied bed rising above her. And then it all came back: the drive along the dark highway, the increasingly bizarre comments by Pendergast's brother, the sudden attack…

She fought down a rising wave of panic, lying still, concentrating only on her breathing, trying not to think of anything at all.

Finally-when she felt she was master of herself-she sat up slowly. Her head reeled, and dark spots danced across her vision. She closed her eyes. When at last the throbbing had subsided a little, she opened her eyes once again and looked around the room.

It was a small bedroom with rose-patterned wallpaper, some old Victorian furniture, and a single barred window. Moving carefully- for the sake of both her headache and silence-she swung her legs over the bed and stood unsteadily on the floor. Quietly, she reached for the door handle and gave it a turn, but, as she expected, it was locked. A second twinge of panic was suppressed more quickly than the first.

She went to the window and looked out. The house was set a few hundred yards back from a marshy bay. Beyond a line of scraggly dunes, she could see a pounding line of surf and a dark ocean fleckedwith whitecaps. The sky was a metal gray and, with the instinct of somebody who had spent many nights under the open sky, she sensed it was morning. On both the right and the left, she could just make out a pair of ramshackle beach houses, their windows boarded up for the season. The beach was empty.

She reached through the bars and tapped on the glass. It seemed to be unusually blue and thick-perhaps unbreakable. And soundproofed, too-at least, she could not hear the surf.

Still moving slowly, and making every effort to be silent, she walked into a small adjoining bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was old-fashioned and neat, with a sink, a claw-footed tub, and another small window, also barred and paned in the same oddly thick glass. She turned on the tap and out came a gush of water, which quickly went from cold to piping hot. Shutting it off, she returned to the bedroom.

She sat back down on the bed, thinking. It was all so unreal, so utterly bizarre, it was impossible to comprehend. That the person who had picked her up was Pendergast's brother, she had absolutely no doubt-in many ways, he was practically a twin of the man. But why had he kidnapped her like this? What were his intentions? And, most important: what on earth was Pendergast's role in it? How could she have been so wrong about him?

But then, when she thought back to their brief meeting on the island of Capraia last fall, she realized how strange it all was. Perhaps word of his tragic death that made her romanticize their lone encounter and made it seem more than it really was. And then that letter, with its news that Pendergast was still alive, and its romantic, impulsive request…

Impulsive. That was the word. Once, again she had allowed her impulsiveness to get her into trouble-and this time it looked like deadly serious trouble.

Was it possible that D'Agosta was in on it, too? That the entire story of Pendergast's death had been a sham, part of some complex plot to lure her here? Was this some kind of sophisticated kidnapping network? Or were they holding her for ransom? The more she thought about this complete and utter dog's breakfast, the more she felt fear giving way to anger and outrage. But even that emotion she repressed. Better to direct her energies toward escape.

She went back into the bathroom and made a quick inventory: plastic comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, water glass, clean towels, washcloth, shampoo. She reached down and picked up the glass. It was heavy and cold, real glass.

She turned it over thoughtfully in her hands. A sharp piece would make a weapon, but it could also double as a tool. Escape through the windows was out of the question, and no doubt the door would be reinforced and secure. But this was an old house, and the walls would probably be plaster and lath beneath the wallpaper.

She took a towel, wrapped it tightly around the glass, and gave it several sharp taps on the edge of the sink until it broke. She unwrapped the towel: as she'd hoped, the glass had broken into several large pieces. She took the sharpest, walked back into the bedroom, and approached the opposite wall. Careful to minimize noise, she stuck the pointed edge into the wallpaper and gave an exploratory thrust.

It immediately slipped, taking with it a piece of the wallpaper. She saw, to her dismay, the glint of metal underneath. With her fingernails, she caught the cut edge of wallpaper and peeled it back, revealing a smooth, cold expanse of steel.

A chill went up her spine. And in that moment, a knock came at the door.

She started, then quickly climbed back into the bed, pretending to be asleep.

The knock came again, and a third time, and then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock. The door creaked open. She lay there, eyes closed, shard of glass concealed beside her body.

"Dear Viola. I know you have been up and about."

Still she lay there.

"I see you have already discovered I've decorated your room in metal. Now, please sit up and stop this tiresome charade. I have something important to tell you."

Viola sat up, anger returning. A man stood in the doorway whom she did not recognize, although the voice was unmistakably that of Diogenes.

"Forgive my unusual appearance; I am dressed for the city. To which I am headed in a few minutes."

"In disguise, it seems. You fancy yourself a right Sherlock Holmes."

The man bowed his head.

"What do you want, Diogenes?"

"I have what I want-you."

"Whatever for?"

The strange man gave a broad smile. "What do I want with you? Frankly, I could care less about you, except for one thing: you aroused the interest of my brother. I heard your name pass his lips just once, no more. It piqued my curiosity. Luckily, your name is unique, your family is prominent, and I was able to find out a great deal-a great deal-about you. I suspected tender feelings on your part for my brother. When you responded to my letter, I knew my hunch was right, and that I had landed a prize beyond compare."

"You're an ass. You don't know anything about me."

"My dear Viola, rather than worrying about what I know, you should be worrying about two things you don't know-and should. First, you need to know that you cannot get out of this room. The walls, floor, ceiling, and door are made of riveted ship's hull steel. The windows are two layers of unbreakable, soundproof, bulletproof glass. The glass is one-way, which means that you can see out but those outside-and there will not be any-cannot see in. I tell you this only to save you trouble. There are books in the bookcase, drinking water from the tap, and some hard candies in the bottom drawer of the bureau for you to suck on."

"My, you've gone to a lot of trouble and expense. Boiled sweets, even."

"Indeed."

"Indeed." She mocked his courtly drawl. "You said you had two things to tell me. What's the second?"

"That you must die. If you believe in a supreme being, be sure to resolve any unfinished business you have with Him. Your death will take place tomorrow morning, at the traditional time: dawn."

Almost without intent, Viola laughed: an angry, bitter laugh. "If you could only hear what a pompous ass you sound! You will die at dawn. How histrionic."

Diogenes took a step back, a frown passing fleetingly over his face before neutrality returned. "What a sprightly vixen you are."

"What have I done to you, you bloody nutter?"

"Nothing. It is what you did to my brother."

"I did nothing to your brother! Is this some kind of sick joke?"

A dry chuckle. "It is indeed a sick joke, a very sick joke."

Anger and frustration burned away her fear. Viola slowly tightened her grip on the shard of glass. "For such a revolting man, you seem insufferably pleased with yourself."

The dry chuckle died off. "My, my. We certainly have a sharp tongue this morning."

"You're crazy."

"I have no doubt that, by the standards of society, I am clinically insane."

Viola's eyes narrowed. "So you're a follower of the Scottish psychiatrist R. D. Laing."

"I follow nobody."

"So you believe, in your ignorance. Laing said, 'Mental illness is the sane response to an insane world.'"

"I commend the gentleman-whoever he is-for his insight. But my dear Viola, I don't have all day to exchange pleasantries-"

"My dear Diogenes-if only you knew just how boorish you sound." She put on a deadly accurate imitation of his languid accent. "How dreadfully sorry I am that we can't continue this charming conversation. You and your feeble attempts at breeding."

There was a silence. Diogenes had lost his smile, but if other thoughts were going through his head, they did not express themselves on his face. Viola was amazed at the depth and clarity of her own anger. She was breathing fast, and her heart was going like mad in her chest.

Diogenes finally sighed. "You are as chattery as a monkey and almost as smart. If I were you, I'd be a little less garrulous and face your end with dignity, as befits your station."

"My station? Oh my God, don't tell me you're another of those American poons who get their willy up meeting some red-nosed baronet or doddering old viscount. I should have known."

"Viola, please. You're getting overexcited."

"Wouldn't you be a little overexcited if you had been lured overseas, drugged and kidnapped, locked in a room, and threatened-"

"Viola, ça suffit! I will be back in the wee hours of the morning to carry out my promise. Specifically, I will cut your throat. Twice. In honor of our Uncle Comstock."

She suddenly stopped. The fear had come back in full force. "Why?"

"Finally, a sensible question. I am an existentialist. I carve my own meaning out of the suppurating carcass of this rotting universe. Through no fault of your own, you have become part of that meaning. But I do not feel sorry for you. The world is abrim with pain and suffering. I simply choose to direct the festivities instead of offering myself up as another witless victim. I take no pleasure in the suffering of others-except one. That is my meaning. I live for my brother, Viola; he gives me strength, he gives me purpose, he gives me life. He is my salvation."

"You and your brother can go to hell!"

"Ah, dear Viola. Didn't you know? This is hell. Except that you are about to gain your release."

Viola leaped off the bed and rushed at him, shard raised, but in the blur of an instant she found herself pinned to the floor. Somehow Diogenes now lay on top of her, his face inches from hers, his breath, sweetly smelling of cloves, in her face.

"Good-bye, my lively little monkey," he murmured, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

And then, in one swift, batlike movement, he rose and was gone, the door slamming behind him. She flung herself on it but it was too late: there was the sound of oiled steel sliding into steel, and the door felt as cold and unyielding as a bank vault.