Dance Of Death

SEVENTY-TWO

Hayward had never before visited the legendary high-security lockup within Bellevue Hospital, and she walked toward the unit with a rising sense of curiosity. The long, brightly lit hallways stank of rubbing alcohol and bleach, and along the way they passed through almost half a dozen locked doors: Adult Emergency Services, Psychiatric Emergency, Psychiatric Inpatient, finally ending up at the most intimidating door of all: a windowless double set of dented stainless steel, flanked by two orderlies in white suits and an NYPD police sergeant sitting at a desk. The door sported a small, scratched label: Secure Area.

Hayward flashed her badge. "Captain Laura Hayward and guest. We're expected in D-11."

"Morning, Captain," said the sergeant in a leisurely tone, who took her shield, jotted down some information on the sign-in sheet, and handed it to her to sign.

"My guest will wait here while I visit the inmate first."

"Sure, sure," said the sergeant. "Joe will escort you."

The beefier of the two orderlies nodded, unsmiling.

The sergeant turned to a nearby phone and made a call. A moment later, there came the sound of heavy automatic locks being released. The orderly named Joe pulled the door open. "D-11, you said?"

"That's correct."

"This way, Captain."

Beyond lay a narrow corridor, the floors and walls of linoleum. Long rows of doors lined both walls. These were metal, with tiny observation ports set at eye level. A strange, muted chorus of voices met Hayward's ears: frenzied cursing, crying, a dreadful half-human gibbering, all filtering out from behind the doors. The smell was different here; underlying the stench of alcohol and cleaning fluids was a faint waft of vomit, excrement, and something else which Hayward recognized from her visits to maximum security prisons: the smell of fear.

The door clanged shut behind her. A moment later, the automatic locks reengaged with a crack like a pistol shot.

She followed the orderly down the long corridor, around a corner, and down a similar corridor. There, toward the end, she could easily identify the room they were headed for: it could only be the one with four men in suits standing guard outside. Coffey had missed out on the actual collar, but he sure as hell wasn't going to miss anything else.

The agents turned as she approached. Hayward recognized one of them as Coffey's personal flunky, Agent Rabiner. He didn't seem happy to see her.

"Put your weapons in the lockbox, Captain," he said by way of greeting.

Captain Hayward removed her service piece and pepper spray and placed them in the lockbox.

"Looks like we're keeping him," Rabiner said with an unctuous smile. "We've got him nailed on Decker, and it fits the federal death penalty statute to a T. Right now it's just a question of getting the psych evaluation over with. By the end of the week, he'll be in the isolation unit at Herkmoor. We're taking this sucker to trial, like, tomorrow."

"You're rather garrulous this morning, Agent Rabiner," Hayward said.

That shut him up.

"I'd like to see him now. First myself, then I will bring back a guest."

"You going in alone or want protection?"

Hayward didn't bother answering. She simply stood back and waited while one of the agents peered through the glass, then unbolted the door, weapon at the ready.

"Sing out if he gets physical," Rabiner said.

Captain Hayward stepped into the garishly lit cell.

Pendergast, in an orange prison jumpsuit, sat quietly on the narrow cot. The walls of the cell were thickly padded and there were no other furnishings.

For a moment, Hayward said nothing. She had grown so used to seeing him in a well-tailored black suit that the outfit looked incomprehensibly out of place. His face was pale and drawn, but still composed.

"Captain Hayward." He stood and motioned her toward the cot. "Please have a seat."

"That's all right. I prefer to stand."

"Very well." Pendergast, too, remained standing, as a courtesy.

A silence settled over the small cell. Hayward was not one to find herself at a loss for words, but the fact was, she still didn't quite know what impulse had prompted her to make this visit. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

"What did you do to piss off Special Agent Coffey?" she asked.

Pendergast smiled a little wanly. "Agent Coffey has an inordinately high opinion of himself. It's a viewpoint I've never quite been able to bring myself to share. We worked on a case together some years ago, which did not end well for him."

"I ask because we tried to get jurisdiction over the case, but I've never seen the FBI stomp down so hard on the NYPD. And it wasn't done in the usual semi-cordial way."

"I am not surprised."

"Thing is, there've been a couple of bizarre developments in the case, not yet official, which I wanted to ask you about."

"Please do."

"Turns out Margo Green is alive. Someone pulled a fast one at the hospital, arranging for her to be medevaced upstate under a phony name, while substituting the corpse of a homeless drug addict about to be sent to potter's field in her place. The M.E. says it was an honest mistake, the medical director claims it was a 'regrettable bureaucratic mix-up.' Funny that both of them happen to be old acquaintances of yours. Green's mother just about had a heart attack when she learned the daughter she had just buried was alive."

She paused, her eyes narrowed, then burst out: "Damn it, Pendergast! Can't you do anything by the book? And how could you put a mother through that?"

Pendergast was silent a moment before answering. "Because her grief had to be real. Diogenes would have seen through any dissembling. As cruel as it was, it was necessary in order to save Margo Green's life-and her life is, ultimately, more important than a mother's temporary grief. It was this same need for utmost secrecy that kept me from telling even Lieutenant D'Agosta."

Hayward sighed. "Anyway, I just spoke to Green on the phone. She's incredibly weak, had the closest of calls, but she was very lucid. And what she had to say surprised the hell out of me. She's absolutely insistent that you weren't her attacker, and her description fits the other description we have of your brother quite well. Problem is, it was your blood at the crime scene and on the weapon Green defended herself with, along with fiber, hair, and other physical evidence. So we've got a major evidence conundrum on our hands."

"You certainly do."

"Our interviews with Viola Maskelene corroborate your story about Diogenes, at least what I understand of it. She's insistent it was he who did the kidnapping, not you. She says he basically confessed to the killings and showed her one of the stolen diamonds from the Astor Hall. No proof, of course, just her word, but she helped lead us to the safe house where she was held. We found quite a setup there, including some pretty conclusive evidence linking Diogenes to the Astor Hall theft-evidence he clearly didn't intend to give up."

"Interesting."

"We almost caught someone in the tunnels who Lieutenant D'Agosta swears was Diogenes. The gemologist, Kaplan, backs this up, as does Maskelene. Their preliminary stories are all consistent, and we know it couldn't have been you. We've asked our British counterparts to open an investigation into Diogenes's death in England, but that'll take time. Anyway, the evidence does seem to indicate your brother may be alive, after all. We have three people who certainly believe it."

Pendergast nodded. "And what do you believe, Captain?"

Hayward hesitated. "That the case merits further investigation. Trouble is, the FBI are moving full speed ahead bringing capital charges on the murder of a federal agent, and it seems they could care less at present about any inconsistencies in the other three. Or rather, two, since the Green killing wasn't a killing, after all. Which makes my continued investigation of those other homicides somewhat moot."

Pendergast nodded. "I see your problem."

Hayward peered at him curiously. "I was just wondering-do you have anything to say about the matter to me?"

"That I have faith in your abilities as a police officer to find the truth."

"Nothing more?"

"That's a great deal, Captain."

She paused. "Help me, Pendergast."

"The person to help you is Lieutenant D'Agosta. He knows all there is to know about the case, and you could do no better than use his expertise."

"You know that's impossible. Lieutenant D'Agosta's on modified duty. He can't help anyone at the moment."

"Nothing is impossible. You just need to learn how to bend the rules."

Hayward sighed irritatedly.

"I have a question for you," Pendergast said. "Does Agent Coffey know about the reappearance of Margo Green?"

"No, but I doubt he'd care much. As I said, they're one hundred percent focused on Decker."

"Good. I would ask you to keep that information quiet as long as possible. I believe Margo Green is safe from Diogenes, at least in the short term. My brother has gone to ground and will be licking his wounds for a while, but when he emerges, he will be more dangerous than ever. I ask that you keep a protective eye over Dr. Green during the rest of her convalescence. The same goes for William Smithback and his wife, Nora. And yourself. You're all potential targets, I'm afraid."

Hayward gave a shudder. What had seemed like an insane fantasy just two days ago now was beginning to look chillingly real.

"I'll do that," she said.

"Thank you."

Another silence settled over the cell. After a moment, Hayward roused herself.

"Well, I'd better be going. I really just came as an escort for someone else who wants to see you."

"Captain?" Pendergast said. "A final word."

She turned to face him again. He stood there, pale in the artificial light, his cool gaze resting upon her.

"Please don't be too hard on Vincent."

Despite herself, Hayward looked away quickly.

"What he did, he did at my request. The reason he told you so little, the reason he moved out-those actions were to keep you safe from my brother. In order to help me, to protect lives, he made a grave professional sacrifice-I hope and pray the sacrifice won't be a personal one, as well."

Hayward did not reply.

"That's all. Good-bye, Captain."

Hayward found her voice. "Good-bye, Agent Pendergast."

Then, still without making eye contact, she turned away once more and rapped on the safety glass of the observation port.

Pendergast watched the door close behind Hayward. He stood motionless, in the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, listening. He heard a few muffled voices outside the padded door, and then focused on the light but determined stride of Hayward as she made for the ward'sexit. He heard the security locks disengage, heard the heavy door boom open. It remained so for almost thirty seconds before closing and locking again.

Still, Pendergast listened, even more intently. Because now another, different set of footsteps was sounding in the corridor outside: slower, tentative. They were growing closer. As he listened, his frame tensed. A moment later, there was a rude banging on his door again.

"Visitor!"

Then Viola Maskelene appeared in the doorway.

She had a scratch over one eye, and beneath her Mediterranean tan she seemed pale, but otherwise she appeared unhurt.

Pendergast found he could not move. He simply stood and looked at her.

She stepped forward, stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room. The door closed behind her.

Still, Pendergast did not move.

Viola's eyes fell from his face to his prison garb.

"I wish, for your sake, that you'd never met me," he said almost coldly.

"What about for your sake?"

He looked at her a long time, and then said, more quietly: "I'll never regret meeting you. But as long as you have feelings for me- if that is indeed the case-then you'll be in grave danger. You must go away and never see or think of me again."

He paused, then cast his eyes to the floor. "I'm deeply, deeply sorry for everything."

There was a long silence.

"Is that it?" Viola finally asked in a low voice. "We'll never know, never have the chance to find out?"

"Never. Diogenes is still out there. If he thinks there's any connection remaining between us, anything at all, he'll kill you. You must leave immediately, go back to Capraia, get on with your life, tell everyone-including your own heart-how utterly indifferent you are to me."

"And what about you?"

"I'll know you're alive. That's enough."

She took a fierce step forward. "I don't want to "get on' with my life. Not anymore." She hesitated, then raised her arms and rested her hands on his shoulders. "Not after meeting you."

Pendergast remained as still as a statue.

"You must leave me behind," he said quietly. "Diogenes will be back. And I won't be able to protect you."

"He… said terrible things to me," she said, her voice faltering. "It's been thirty-six hours since I walked out of that railroad tunnel, and in all those hours I haven't been able to think of anything else. I've led a stupid, wasted, loveless life. And now you're telling me to walk away from the only thing that means anything to me."

Pendergast put his arms gently around her waist, looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Diogenes makes it a game to find out a person's deepest fears. Then he strikes a deadly, well-aimed blow. He's driven people to suicide that way. But his words are hollow. Don't let those words stalk you. To know Diogenes is to walk in darkness. You must walk out of that darkness, Viola. Back into the light. And that also means away from me."

"No," she murmured.

"Go back to your island and forget about me. If not for your own sake, Viola, then for mine."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Then, in the harsh light of the squalid cell, they kissed.

After a moment, Pendergast disengaged himself and stepped back. His face was uncharacteristically flushed; his pale eyes glittered.

"Good-bye, Viola," he said.

Viola stood as if rooted to the ground. A minute passed. Then, with infinite reluctance, she turned and walked slowly to the door.

At the door, she hesitated and, without turning, began to speak in a low voice.

"I'll do as you say. I'll go back to my island. I'll tell everyone I could not care less about you. I'll live my life. And when you're finally free, you'll know where to find me."

She gave a quick rap on the observation port, the door opened- and she was gone.

epilogue

The fire died on the grate, leaving a crumbling stack of coals. The light in the library was dim, and the usual cloak of silence lay over all: the baize-covered reading tables neatly stacked with books, the walls of slumbering volumes, the shaded lamps and leather chairs. Outside, it was a bright winter day, the last day of January, but within 891 Riverside it seemed to be perpetual night.

Constance sat in one chair, wearing a black petticoat with white lace trimming, legs tucked up beneath her, reading an eighteenth-century treatise on the benefits of bloodletting. D'Agosta sat in a wing chair nearby. A can of Budweiser sat on a silver tray on a table beside him, unconsumed, in a puddle of its own condensation.

D'Agosta glanced over at Constance, at her perfect profile, her straight brown hair. That she was a beautiful young woman, there was no doubt; that she was unusually, even uncannily, intelligent and well read for someone her age went without saying. But there was something strange about her-very, very strange. She'd had no emotional reaction at all to the news of Pendergast's arrest and incarceration. None.

In D'Agosta's experience, that kind of nonreaction was often the strongest reaction of all. It worried him. Pendergast had warned him of Constance's current fragility and had hinted of dark things in her past. D'Agosta had long had his own doubts about Constance's stability, and this inexplicable lack of reaction only made him wonder the more. It was partly to watch over her, now that Pendergast was gone, that had brought him and his few belongings back to 891 the day before-that and the fact he had no place else to go.

And then there was the problem of Diogenes. It was true he had been crossed, his plans for Viola and Lucifer's Heart had been thwarted, he himself forced back into hiding. The NYPD now believed in his existence and were pursuing him with a vengeance. The recent developments seemed to have dented, but not completely shaken, their certainty that Pendergast was a serial killer-the problem was still the overwhelming physical evidence. The NYPD was at least now certain, however, that Diogenes was behind the Astor Hall theft and had kidnapped Viola. They'd found the safe house and were in the process of taking it apart. The case was by no means closed.

In a way, Diogenes's failure and flight only made him more dangerous. He recalled Diogenes's curiosity about Constance, during the phone conversation in the vintage Jaguar, and he shivered. The one thing he could count on was that Diogenes was a meticulous planner. His response-and there would be one, of that D'Agosta was sure- would not come for a while. He would have a little time to prepare for it.

Constance looked up from her book. "Did you know, Lieutenant, that even into the early 1800s, leeches were often a preferred alternative to the scarificator when performing bloodletting?"

D'Agosta glanced at her. "Can't say that I did."

"The colonial doctors frequently imported the European leech, Hirudinea annelida, because it was able to take in much more blood than Macrobetta decora."

"Macrobetta decora?"

"The American leech, Lieutenant." And Constance returned to her book.

Call me Vincent, D'Agosta thought as he looked reflectively at her.

He wasn't all that sure how much longer he was going to be a lieutenant, anyway.

His mind wandered to the previous afternoon, and the humiliating internal affairs hearing. On the one hand, it had been a huge relief: Singleton had been good to his word and the whole misadventure had been chalked up to an undercover operation gone awry, in which D'Agosta had displayed poor judgment, made errors-one of the board had termed him "maybe the stupidest cop on the force" -but in the end they found he had not willfully committed any felonies. The list of misdemeanors was ugly enough.

Stupidity was better than felony, Singleton had told him afterward. There would be more hearings, but his future as an NYPD cop-as any kind of cop-was very much in question.

Hayward, of course, had testified. Her testimony had been delivered in a resolutely neutral voice, employing the usual police jargon, and not once-not once-had she glanced in his direction. But in its own way, the testimony had been effective in helping him escape some of the heavier charges.

Once again, he dragged the Diogenes file into his lap, feeling a sudden stab of futility. Ten days before, he had been in this same room, looking at this same file, again without Pendergast there to guide him. Only now, four people had been murdered, and Pendergast, instead of being "dead," was in Bellevue, undergoing some kind of psych evaluation. D'Agosta had learned nothing helpful then- what could he possibly learn now?

But he had to keep plugging. They'd taken everything away from him: his career, his relationship with Hayward, his closest friend- everything. There was only one thing left for him to do: prove Pendergast's innocence. And to do that, he needed to find Diogenes.

A faint buzzer sounded in the depths of the house. Someone was at the door.

Constance looked up. For the briefest of moments, naked fear- and something else, something ineffable-showed in her face before a veil of blankness came down.

D'Agosta stood up. "It's okay. Probably just neighborhood kids, playing around. I'll check it out."

He put the file aside, stood up, surreptitiously checked his weapon, then began walking toward the library door. But even as he did, he saw Proctor approaching from across the reception hall.

"A gentleman here to see you, sir," Proctor said.

"You took the necessary precautions?" D'Agosta asked.

"Yes, sir, I-"

But just then, a man in a wheelchair came into view in the gallery behind Proctor. D'Agosta stared in astonishment as he recognized Eli Glinn, the head of Effective Engineering Solutions.

The man brushed past both Proctor and D'Agosta and wheeled himself toward one of the library tables. With a brusque motion of his arm, he shoved aside several stacks of books, clearing off a space. Then he deposited a load of papers on the table: blueprints, plats, building plans, mechanical and electrical diagrams.

Constance had risen and was standing, book in hand, looking on.

"What are you doing here?" D'Agosta asked. "How did you find this place?"

"Never mind that," said the man, turning to D'Agosta with a gleam in his good eye. "Last Sunday, I made a promise."

He raised his black-gloved hand, and in it was a slender manila folder. He laid it on the table.

"And there you have it: a preliminary psychological profile of Diogenes Dagrepont Bernoulli Pendergast. Updated, I might add, to reflect these most recent events-at least what I could glean of them from the news reports and my sources. I'm counting on you to tell me more."

"There's a lot more."

Glinn glanced over. "And you must be Constance."

She nodded in a way that was almost a curtsy.

"I'll need your help, too."

"I shall be glad."

"Why this sudden interest?" D'Agosta asked. "I had the impression-"

"The impression that I wasn't giving it a high priority? I wasn't. At the time, it seemed a relatively unimportant problem, a way to earn an easy fee. But then, this happened." And he tapped the manila folder. "There may not be a more dangerous man in the world."

"I don't get it."

A grim smile gathered on Glinn's lips. "You will when you read the profile."

D'Agosta nodded toward the table. "And what are all these other papers?"

"Blueprints and mechanical plans for the maximum security wing of the Herkmoor Correctional Facility in upstate New York."

"Why?"

"I should think the 'why' would be obvious. My client, Agent Pendergast."

"But Pendergast is in Bellevue, not Herkmoor."

"He'll be in Herkmoor soon enough."

D'Agosta glanced at Glinn in astonishment. "You don't mean we're going to… to bust him out?"

"I do."

Constance drew in a sharp breath.

"That's one of the worst pens in the country. No one's ever escaped from Herkmoor."

Glinn continued to stare at D'Agosta. "I'm aware of that."

"You think it's even possible?"

"Anything's possible. But I must have your help."

D'Agosta looked down at the papers and blueprints thrown across the table. Everything conceivable was there-diagrams and drawings of every technical, structural, electrical, and mechanical system in the building. Then he glanced at Constance. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

Finally, he looked back at Glinn's one glittering eye. For the first time in a long while, he felt a fierce, sudden rush of hope.

"I'm in," he said. "So help me God, I'm in."

Another smile spread across Glinn's scarred face. He gave the pile of papers a light slap with his gloved hand. "Come on, my friends- we've got work to do."