Dance Of Death

'Yes.' Constance went even paler and for a moment seemed to stagger slightly. Pendergast placed his hand on her shoulder.

She mastered herself with effort. 'I'm fine, thank you. Do go on.'

'He has already begun. Over the last several days, three of my closest friends have been killed.' Pendergast touched his jacket pocket. 'This note from Diogenes puts me on notice that William Smithback is the next target.'

'William Smithback?'

'He's a reporter for the New York Times.' Pendergast hesitated again.

'And?' Constance asked. 'There's something else troubling you- I can see it in your face.'

'Yes. The first three who died were all very close to me. But that isn't the case with Bill Smithback. I've known him for several years. He was involved in three cases of mine, a very effective journalist. And despite an impulsive and somewhat careerist exterior, he is a good man. What troubles me, however, is that he's more an acquaintance than a friend. Diogenes is casting his net wider than I thought. It isn't just close friends who are at risk. And that makes the situation even more difficult than I thought.'

'How can I help?' Constance asked in a low tone.

'By keeping yourself absolutely safe.'

'You think-?'

'That you're a possible target? Yes. And there's something more. The third man to die was Michael Decker, an old FBI associate of mine. I found Mike's body yesterday, in his Washington house. He had been killed with an old bayonet. The modus operandi was a nod to a distant ancestor of mine, who died in a very similar fashion as an officer in Napoleon's army, during the Russian campaign of 1812.'

Constance shivered.

'What concerned me was the weapon itself. Constance, that bayonet came from the collections of this very house.'

She froze for a moment as the implications of this sank home. 'The chasepot or the lebel?' she asked faintly, almost robotically.

'The chasepot. It had the initials P.S.P. engraved onto the quillon. Quite unmistakable.'

But Constance did not reply. Her alert, intelligent eyes had sharpened, deepened, with fear.

'Diogenes has found entrance to this house. No doubt that was the message he intended to deliver to me with that particular bayonet.'

'I understand.'

'You're still safer within this house than without, and for now you are not in Diogenes's sights. Proctor here has found and sealed the weak point through which Diogenes entered, and as you know, this mansion has been hardened against intruders in many ways. Proctor will be ceaselessly vigilant, and he is more formidable than he looks. Still, you must be on constant guard. This is a very old and vast house. It has a great many secrets. You know those secrets better than anyone. Follow your instincts. If they tell you something is not right, melt into those recesses of the house that only you know. Be ready at a moment's notice. And until we can once again feel safe from this threat, I want you to sleep in that secret space where you first hid from me and from Wren.'

At this, Constance's eyes went wide and wild. She clutched at Pendergast. 'No!' she cried passionately. 'No, I don't ever want to go back there again!'

Pendergast immediately put his arms around her. 'Constance-'

'You know how it reminds me of that time! The dark spaces, the terrible things… I don't wish to be reminded, ever again!'

'Constance, listen to me. You'll be safe there. And I can't do what needs to be done without knowing you're safe.'

Constance did not respond, and Pendergast pressed her more tightly. 'Will you promise me that?'

She laid her forehead against his chest.

'Aloysius,' she said, her voice breaking. 'It was just a few months ago we sat in the library, upstairs. You read to me from the newspapers. Do you remember?'

Pendergast nodded.

'I was beginning to comprehend. I felt like a swimmer, coming to the surface after being so long underwater. I want that again. I don't want to go… to go down again. You do understand, don't you, Aloysius?'

Pendergast caressed her brown hair gently. 'Yes, I understand. And everything will be as you want it, Constance. You will get better, I promise. But we must get through this first. Will you help me do that?'

She nodded.

Slowly, Pendergast lowered his arms. Then he took her forehead between his hands and, bringing her close, kissed it gently. 'I must go.'

And he turned, darted back into the waiting darkness, and was gone.

TWENTY-ONE

IT was quarter to eight when Smithback emerged from his apartment building, glanced up West End Avenue, and stretched out his hand for a taxi. A beat-up yellow cab that had been idling at the far end of the block pulled forward obediently, and Smithback got in with a sigh of regret.

'Forty-fourth and Seventh,' he said. The driver-a thin, olive-skinned man with black hair and a bad complexion-muttered a few words in some unknown tongue and screeched away from the curb.

Smithback settled back, glancing out at the passing cityscape. By rights, he should still be in bed, arms around his new wife, deliriously asleep. But the image of Harriman, sitting in their editor's office with that insufferably smug look on his face, had spurred him into rising early to flog the story some more.

You'll both share information and leads, Davies had said. Hell with that. Smithback knew Harriman wasn't planning to share jack shit, and for that matter neither was he. He'd check in at the office, make sure nothing disagreeable had happened overnight, and then hit the pavement. The article he'd turned in the night before had been weak, and he had to get something better. He had to, even if it meant buying a damn apartment in Duchamp's building. Now, there was an idea: calling a real estate agent and posing as a prospective buyer…

The driver turned sharply left onto 72nd. 'Hey, watch it,' Smithback said. 'I'm nursing a war wound back here.' For once, the driver had closed the shield of Plexiglas that separated the front from the back. The cab stank of garlic, onions, and cumin, and Smithback opened the rear window. As usual, the damn thing only went down about a third of the way. Smithback's mood, already low, fell lower.

It was probably just as well he'd left the apartment ninety minutes early. Nora had been in a foul mood for several days now, getting hardly any sleep and working at the museum until well past midnight. That, plus the frosty exchange between her and Margo Green the other night at the Bones, was weighing on him heavily. Margo was an old friend and it pained him the two didn't get along. They're too much alike, he thought. Strong-willed and smart.

Ahead lay the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Instead of turning south onto the highway and heading toward Midtown, the driver gunned the cab up the merge ramp onto the northbound lanes.

'What the hell?' Smithback said. 'Hey, you're going the wrong way!'

In response, the driver jammed down harder on the accelerator, veering past blaring horns and into the far left lane.

Shit, the guy's English is worse than I thought. Smithback pounded on the heavy shield of scratched Plexiglas. 'You're going the wrong way. Okay? The- wrong-way. I said 44th Street. Get off at 95th and turn around!'

The driver didn't respond. Instead, he continued to accelerate, weaving in and out of lanes as he passed car after car. The 95th Street exit came and went in a flash.