Dance Of Death

SIXTY

D'Agosta listened to the sirens coming across the dunes. They grew louder, receded, then grew louder again. From his days with the Southampton P.D., he recognized the tinny sound as coming from the cheap units mounted on the dune patrol buggies.

They'd sat here in the shadow of a sand dune, hiding, assessing the situation, at least five minutes. If he remained on the beach, there was no way their truck was going to escape dune buggies. And yet if he went back on the street, he'd be nabbed immediately, now that they knew his approximate location, vehicle, and license plate.

They were now near Southampton, D'Agosta's old stomping ground, and he knew the lay of the land, at least in general terms. There had to be a way out. He would just have to find it.

He started the truck, popped the emergency brake.

"Hold on to your seat," he said.

Pendergast, who had apparently finished making a string of cell phone calls, glanced over. "I am in your hands."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. Then he gunned the engine, the pickup digging out of the hollow and climbing the side of a dune, shooting huge jets of sand behind them. They plunged into another depression, wound around several dunes, then climbed diagonally up the flank of an especially large one that separated them from the mainland. As they topped it, D'Agosta got a backward glimpse of several patrol buggies scooting along the hard sand a quarter mile back, with at least two others in the dunes themselves, no doubt following their tracks.

Shit. They were closer than he'd expected.

D'Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor as the pickup topped the dune. For a moment, they were airborne. Then they landed on the far side, bottoming out in the loose sand, churning and grinding their way through a patch of dense brush. The preserve ended, and the path ahead was blocked by several grand Hampton estates. As he fought with the wheel, D'Agosta quickly arranged the local topography in his head. If they could just get past the estates, he knew, Scuttlehole marsh lay beyond.

The dunes leveled out and he bashed the truck through a slat fence, emerging onto a narrow road. On the far side was a high boxwood hedge, surrounding one of the great estates. He tore alongside the hedge, and where the road curved up ahead, he saw what he was looking for-a sclerotic patch in the foliage-and he veered off, aiming directly for it. The pickup truck hit it at forty, bashed through the hedge, tearing off both mirrors in the process, and then they were accelerating across a ten-acre lawn, a huge Georgian mansion on the left, a gazebo and covered pool on the right, the way beyond blocked by an Italian rose garden.

He flashed past the pool at speed, ripped through the rose garden, nicked the arm off a sculpture of some naked woman, and crashed through a raised vegetable bed that lay beyond. Up ahead, like a green wall, stood another unbroken line of hedge.

Pendergast looked back through the rear window of the pickup truck, a pained expression on his face. "Vincent, you're cutting quite a swath," he said.

"They can add nude statue molestation to my growing list of crimes. For now, though, you'd better brace yourself." And he accelerated toward the hedge.

They hit it with a shuddering crash that nearly stopped the vehicle dead. The engine coughed and sputtered, and for a moment D'Agosta feared it would die. But they fought their way out the far side of the hedge, still running. Across another narrow road, he could see a split-rail fence and, beyond that, the marshes surrounding Scuttlehole Pond.

For the past couple of weeks it had been cold-very cold. Now D'Agosta was going to find out if it had been cold enough.

He tore along the road until he found a break in the fence, then pointed the truck through it and went off-road again. He was forced to slow down as he wound through the sparse jack-pine forest that surrounded the marsh. He could still hear the sirens coming faintly from behind. If he had gained ground cutting through the estate, it was precious little.

The stunted pines gradually gave way to marsh grass and sandy flats. Ahead, he could see the dead stalks of cattail and yellow marsh grass. The pond itself seemed lost in the gray light.

"Vincent?" Pendergast said calmly. "You're aware there's a body of water ahead?"

"I know."

The pickup accelerated over the frozen verge of the marsh, the wheels sending shards of crackling ice skittering away on either side like a wake. The speedometer edged back up to thirty, then thirty-five, then forty. For what he was about to do, he was going to need all the speed he could get.

With a final slapping sound, the cattails scattering in their wake, the pickup truck was on the ice.

Pendergast gripped the door handle, the lattes forgotten. "Vincent-?"

The truck was moving fast across the ice, breaking it as they went with a machine-gun chatter. D'Agosta could see in his rearview mirror that the ice was cracking and shattering behind them, some pieces even flung up and skittering away, black water slopping up. The sound of fracturing ice boomed across the lake like the reports of cannon.

"The idea is they won't be able to follow us," said D'Agosta through clenched teeth.

Pendergast didn't answer.

The far shore, lined with stately homes, steadily approached. The truck felt almost like it was floating now, rising up and down like a powerboat on the continuously breaking crust of ice.

D'Agosta could feel he was losing momentum. He applied just a little more gas, being careful to ease down slowly on the accelerator. The truck roared, wheels spinning, the crackle and snap of ice growing louder.

Two hundred yards. He gave it more gas, but it just spun the wheels faster.

The amount of power being transferred from the wheels to the slick surface was steadily decreasing. The truck jerked, bounced, slowed, and began to slew sideways as the craquelure of failing ice spread out from them in all directions.

This is no time for half measures. D'Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor once again as he spun the wheel. The engine screamed, the truck accelerating, but not quite enough to stay ahead of the horrible disintegration of ice.

One hundred yards.

The engine was now screaming like a turbine, the truck still yawing sideways, moving now on inertia alone.

The far shore was close, but the truck was slowing with every passing second. Pendergast had scooped up the laptop and police radio under his arm, and seemed to be preparing to open his door.

"Not yet!" D'Agosta gave the wheel a sharp check, just enough to straighten out the truck. The nose, the heavier part, was still up, and as long as it stayed that way…

With a horrible sinking sensation, the front of the truck began to settle. There was a moment of breathless suspension. And then it nosed down sharply and slammed into the forward edge of ice, stopping the truck cold.

D'Agosta flung open the door and launched himself into the freezing water, clutching at the breaking edge of ice, gripping it, hauling himself up onto a jagged floe. He scrambled away crablike onto solid ice as the bed of the pickup truck swung upward vertically, the back wheels still spinning off watery slush-and then as he watched, the truck plunged straight down with a rush of forced air, slopping him with a wave of icy water, cakes of broken ice dancing and churning in its wake.

After the truck had vanished, there, on the far side of the gaping hole, stood Pendergast, standing on the ice as if he'd merely stepped out of the truck, computer and radio tucked under one arm, black coat dry and unruffled.

D'Agosta rose unsteadily to his feet on the groaning ice. They were a mere dozen yards from shore. He glanced back but the dune buggies had not yet appeared on the shore of the pond.

"Let's go."

In a moment, they reached the shore and hid themselves behind a raised dock. The buggies were just arriving, their yellow headlights piercing the bitter gray air. The story that met their eyes was evident enough: a long, broken path of heaving ice that led most of the way across the lake to a gaping hole, littered with broken chunks of ice. A slick of gasoline was slowly rising and spreading in rainbow patterns.

Pendergast peered across the lake from between the slats of the dock. "That, Vincent, was a most ingenious maneuver."

"Thanks," D'Agosta said through chattering teeth.

"It will take them a while to determine that we're still alive. Meanwhile, shall we see what the neighborhood has to offer in the way of transportation?"

D'Agosta nodded. He had never been so cold in his life. His hair and clothes were freezing, and his hands burned with the cold.

They crept up along the hedges of one of the great houses-all summer "cottages," currently shut up for the winter. The driveway was empty, and they moved around the side of the house and looked in the garage window.

There sat a vintage Jaguar on blocks, the wheels stacked in the gloom of one corner.

"That should do," Pendergast murmured.

"Garage's alarmed," D'Agosta managed to say.

"Naturally." Pendergast glanced around, found a wire tucked behind a drainpipe, followed it to the garage door, and in a few minutes had found the alarm plate coupling.

"Very crude," he said, jamming a stray nail behind the plate and prying it loose, being careful not to cut the connection. Then he picked the lock on the garage door, raised it a foot, and they slid underneath.

The garage was heated.

"Warm yourself, Vincent, while I get to work."

"How in hell did you avoid going in the water?" D'Agosta said, standing directly on top of the heating vent.

"Perhaps my timing was better." Taking off his coat and jacket and rolling up his crisp white sleeves, Pendergast set the four tires in place, jacked up one end of the car, slipped the tire on and bolted it, then followed the same procedure for the other three wheels.

"Feeling warmer?" he asked as he worked.

"Sort of."

"Then if you don't mind, Vincent, open the hood and connect the battery." Pendergast nodded toward a toolbox that sat in one corner.

D'Agosta pulled out a wrench, opened the hood, connected the battery, checked the fluid levels, and examined the engine. "Looks good."

Pendergast kicked away the final block and jacked down the last wheel. "Excellent."

"No one to call the cops about a stolen car."

"We shall see. Although the area seems deserted for the winter, there's always the danger of a nosy neighbor. This 1954 Mark VII saloon is not an inconspicuous vehicle. Now for the moment of truth. Please get in and help me start her."

D'Agosta clambered into the driver's seat and waited for instructions.

"Foot on the accelerator. Choke out. Gear in neutral."

"Check," D'Agosta said.

"When you hear the engine turn, give it a bit of gas."

D'Agosta complied. A moment later, the car roared to life.

"Ease off the choke," Pendergast said. He walked over to the alarm box, glanced around, picked up a long wire, attached it to both metal plates in the alarm, then opened the door. "Take her out."

D'Agosta eased the Jag out. Pendergast shut the garage door and got into the rear of the vehicle.

"Let's get the heat on in this baby," said D'Agosta, fiddling with the unfamiliar controls as he drove onto the street.

"You do that. Pull over and let it run for a few minutes. I am going to lie down, and… ho, what's this?" He held up a loud sports jacket checkered in various shades of light green. "A stroke of luck, Vincent! Now you look the part."

D'Agosta drew off his sodden coat and tossed it on the floor, putting on the sports jacket instead.

"How becoming."

"Yeah, right."

At that moment, Pendergast's cell phone rang. D'Agosta watched as the agent plucked it from his pocket.

"Yes," Pendergast said. "I understand. Yes, excellent. Thank you." And he hung up.

"We have three hours to get to Manhattan," he said, checking his watch. "Do you think you can manage it?"

"You bet." D'Agosta hesitated. "Now, you want to tell me who that was and what the heck you've been up to?"

"That was William Smithback."

"The journalist?"

"Yes. You see, Vincent, at last-at long, long last-we might have been given a break."

"How do you figure that?"

"Diogenes was the person who robbed the Astor Hall last night."

D'Agosta turned to stare at him. "Diogenes? You sure?"

"Undoubtedly. He's always had an obsession with diamonds. All these murders were just a horrible distraction to keep me busy while he planned his real crime: the robbing of the diamond hall. And he chose to take Viola last, to ensure my maximal distraction during the robbery itself. Vincent, it was a 'perfect' crime, after all, in a spectacular, public sense-not one aimed simply at myself."

"So what makes this a break for us?"

"What Diogenes didn't know-couldn't know-was that the finest gem of all, no doubt the one he most wanted, wasn't on display. He didn't steal Lucifer's Heart: he stole a fake."

"So?"

"So I'm going to steal the real Lucifer's Heart for him and make a trade. Is the motor warmed up? Let's get back to New York-there's no time to waste."

D'Agosta eased the car away from the curb. "I've seen you pull a few rabbits out of your hat, but how in the hell are you going to steal the world's greatest diamond on the spur of the moment? You don't know where it is, you don't know anything about its security."

"Perhaps. But as it happens, Vincent, my plans are already in motion." And Pendergast patted the pocket where his cell phone was.

D'Agosta kept his eyes on the road. "There's a problem," he said in a quiet voice.

"What's that?"

"We're assuming that Diogenes still has something to trade."

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke. "We can only pray that he does."