Dance Of Death

The platitudes sounded hollow, and rather than continue, he stopped short.

He sat there, waiting for Hayward to blow up, curse him out, order him to leave. Yet there was only another long, awful silence. Finally, he looked up. Laura was sitting there, hands in her lap, dinner growing cold, her face pale and her eyes cast downward. Her beautiful blue-black hair had fallen forward, covering one eye. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected. This surprise, this hurt, was even worse than anger.

At last, she sniffed, rubbed a finger beneath her nose, pushed away her plate. Then she rose.

'I've got to get back to work,' she said, so quietly D'Agosta barely heard her. He sat motionless as she brushed her hair away from her face. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door. It wasn't until her hand was on the doorknob that she stopped, realizing she'd forgotten her coat and her briefcase. She turned, walked slowly to the closet, shrugged into her coat, picked up the case. And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not look back.

D'Agosta sat at the dinner table for a long time, listening to the tick of the clock, to the faint street noises filtering up from below. Finally, he stood, brought the dishes into the little kitchen, threw the half-eaten dinners into the garbage, and washed up.

Then he turned and-feeling very old-headed for the bedroom to pack.

TWENTY

AT three o'clock in the morning, the boarded-up Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive looked asleep, perhaps even dead. But deep below the shuttered windows and double-locked doors, activity flickered in one of the basement tunnels cut into the Manhattan bedrock beneath the old house. The longest tunnel-actually a series of connected basement rooms-lay in a line due west, drilling beneath Riverside Drive and Riverside Park toward the Hudson River. At the end, a crude staircase spiraled down a natural cavity to a stone quay, where a watery tunnel led out past a small, weed-draped opening onto the river itself. More than two centuries before, the river pirate who owned the mansion's earlier incarnation had used this secret passage on nocturnal errands of mischief. Today, only a handful of people knew of the hidden entrance.

In this isolated spot, the soft lapping of oars could be heard. There was a faint plash as the green veil of weeds was lifted aside, exposing an underwater passage. It was a foggy, moonless night, and only the palest glint of light outlined a skiff as it entered the tunnel. Noiselessly, it slid forward beneath a low, rocky ceiling, easing up at last to the stone quay.

Pendergast stepped out of the skiff, tethered it to a cleat, and looked around, eyes glinting in the darkness. He remained still for several minutes, listening. Then he pulled a flashlight from his pocket, snapped it on, and headed up the staircase. At the top, he stepped out into a large room filled with wooden cases displaying weapons and armor, some modern, others dating back two thousand years. He passed through the room and into an old laboratory, beakers and retorts gleaming on long black-topped tables.

In one corner of the laboratory stood a silent, shadowy figure.

Pendergast came forward cautiously, one hand stealing toward his weapon. 'Proctor?'

'Sir?'

Pendergast relaxed. 'I got the signal from Constance.'

'And I, in turn, got your message to meet here. But I must say I'm surprised to see you in person, sir.'

'I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But as it happens, there's a message that I, in turn, must deliver to Constance, and it's one I felt had to be delivered in person.'

Proctor nodded. 'I understand, sir.'

'From now on, it is vital that you keep a close eye on her. You know Constance, how fragile her mental condition is. How she appears on the surface is no indication at all of her true emotional state. You also know that she's been through what no other human being has. I fear that, if she is not treated with exceptional care and caution…'

His voice trailed off. After a moment, Proctor nodded again.

'This all couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm going to tell her that she needs to be ready at all times to return to that place… where she first hid from us. Where nobody, nobody, could ever find her.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You found the breach?'

'It has been found and sealed.'

'Where was it?'

'It seems that a nineteenth-century sewer tunnel runs under Broadway, just beyond the basement fruit cellars. It has not been used for fifty years. He was able to penetrate the fruit cellars from that tunnel, knocking a hole in the pipe.'

Pendergast looked at him sharply. 'He didn't find the staircase leading to this sub-basement?'

'No. It seems he was in the house for only a few moments. He was there just long enough to take the item from a first-floor cabinet and leave.'

Pendergast continued to look fixedly at Proctor. 'You must make sure the mansion is perfectly sealed. This cannot be allowed to happen again. Is that clear?'

'Perfectly, sir.'

'Good. Then let's go speak with her.'

They passed out of the laboratory and through a series of chambers filled with glass-fronted cabinets and tall cases full of seemingly endless and impossibly eclectic collections: stuffed migratory birds, Amazonian insects, rare minerals, bottled chemicals.

At last, in a room full of butterflies, they stopped. Pendergast licked the flashlight over the ranks of display cases. Then he spoke quietly into the darkness.

'Constance?'

Only silence answered.

'Constance?' he said again, just a trifle louder.

There was a faint rustle of linen; then a woman of about twenty appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She wore a long, old-fashioned white dress with lace ruffling around the throat. Her delicate skin was very pale in the light of the flashlight.

'Aloysius,' she said, embracing him. 'Thank God.'

For a moment, Pendergast simply held her close. Then he gently detached himself and turned away for a minute, twisting a small brass knob set into one wall. The chamber filled with faint light.

'Aloysius, what's the matter?' Her eyes-strangely wise for a face so young-grew anxious.

'I'll tell you in a moment.' Pendergast placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 'Tell me about the message.'

'It arrived late this evening.'

'Method of delivery?'

'It was slipped into a crack beneath the front door.'

'You took the necessary precautions?'

Constance nodded. Then she reached into one of her sleeves and drew out a small ivory business card, carefully sealed inside a glassine envelope.

Pendergast took the card, turned it over. Diogenes Pendergast was engraved in fine copperplate on the card's face: below that, in rose-colored ink, had been written: The Five of Swords is Smithback.

He stared at the card for a long moment. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket.

'What does it mean?' Constance asked.

'I hesitate to tell you more. Your nerves have been strained enough already.'

Constance smiled faintly. 'I must say, when you walked into the library, I was sure I was seeing a-a revenant.'

'You know my brother's plans, how he intends to destroy me.'