Dance Of Death

'Get down,' Pendergast said, but Smithback was already on the floor, hands over his head.

From this position, the nightmare was even worse: unable to see anything, Smithback could only imagine the chaos of the chase, the violent changes of direction, the screeching of tires, the roar of the engine, the blaring of horns, snatches of cursing in English and Spanish. And above it all, the ever-growing wail of police sirens. Again and again, he was thrown forward against the undersupports of the front seat as Pendergast braked violently; again and again, he was thrown back as the agent accelerated.

After a few endless minutes, Pendergast spoke again. 'I need you to get up, Mr. Smithback. Do so carefully.'

Smithback rose, gripping the seat. The car was racing along a wide avenue through an impoverished barrio of the Bronx, darting from left to right. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the Mercedes still pacing them, swerving back and forth among slow-moving delivery vans and lowriders. Farther back were strung out at least half a dozen police cars.

'We're going to be stopping in a moment,' Pendergast said. 'It is imperative that you follow me out of the car as quickly as possible.'

'Follow-?' Smithback was so terrorized his mind had stopped working.

'Just do as I say, please. Stay right behind me. Right behind me. Is that clear?'

'Yes,' Smithback croaked.

Ahead, the road ended in a vast fence of barbed wire and metal pipe, interrupted only by a heavy gate directly before them. The fence enclosed at least five acres of cars, SUVs, and vans, squeezed impossibly close to one another, extending from one end of the fence to the other, a sea of vehicles, all makes and models and vintages. They were all packed so tightly not even a scooter could get between them. Atop the gate was a battered sign that read Division of Motor Vehicles-Mott Haven Impound Facility.

Pendergast plucked a small remote control from one pocket and punched a code onto its keypad. Slowly, the gate began to open. When Pendergast did not reduce speed, Smithback clasped the door handle again and clenched his teeth.

The car blew past the gate with an inch to spare and, with a shuddering squeal of brakes, spun sideways and stopped at the wall of cars. Without bothering to turn off the engine, Pendergast leaped out and took off, with a brusque wave for Smithback to follow. The reporter tumbled out of the backseat and dashed after Pendergast, who was already running through the maze of cars. They made directly for the rear of the facility, running and dodging through the sea of parked vehicles. Smithback could barely keep up with the agent flying along in front of him.

It was close to a half-mile sprint to the rear wall of the impound facility. At last, Pendergast stopped at the final row of vehicles, which were parked a few dozen yards in from the rear of the yard, blocked by the same heavy steel pipe fence. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a battered Chevy van parked in the last row and gestured for Smithback to get in the back. Pendergast leaped behind the wheel, turned the key, and the van roared to life.

'Hold on,' he said. Then he put the van in gear and shot forward, accelerating directly toward the pipe fence.

'Wait,' Smithback said. 'You'll never bash through that fence. We'll be-oh, shit!' He turned away, shielding his face from the inevitable catastrophic impact.

There was a loud clang; a brief jolt; but the van was still accelerating forward. Smithback raised his head and lowered his arms, heart pounding, and looked back. He saw that a section of the fence had been knocked away, leaving a clean rectangular hole in its place.

'The metal pipes had already been cut, then spot-welded back into place,' Pendergast said by way of explanation, driving more slowly now, making a number of turns through a warren of side streets while removing his wig and wiping the stage makeup from his face with a silk handkerchief. The black Mercedes and the police cars were gone. 'Help me with this.'

Smithback climbed into the front seat and helped Pendergast pull off the cheap, stained brown polyester top, revealing a dress shirt and tie underneath.

'Hand me my jacket back there, if you'd be so kind.'

Smithback pulled a beautifully pressed suit coat off a rack hanging behind the front seat. Pendergast slid into it quickly.

'You planned this whole thing, didn't you?' Smithback said.

Pendergast turned onto East 138th Street. 'This is a case where advance preparation meant the difference between life and death.'

All at once, Smithback understood the plan. 'That guy who was after us-you lured him into the one place he couldn't follow. There's no way around that impound facility.'

'There is a way around, yes, involving three miles of driving through congested side streets.' Pendergast turned north, heading for the Sheridan Expressway.

'So who the hell was that? The man you say is trying to kill me?'

'As I said, the less you know, the better. Although I must say that the high-speed chase and the use of firearms were uncharacteristically crude of him. Perhaps he saw his opportunity evaporating and became desperate.' He looked over at Smithback with a laconic expression. 'Well, Mr. Smithback? Convinced?'

Smithback nodded slowly. 'But why me? What'd I do?'

'That is, unfortunately, the very question I can't answer.'

Smithback's heart was only now slowing down, and he felt as wrung out and limp as a dishrag. He'd been in tight spots with Pendergast before. Deep down, he knew the man wouldn't do something like this unless it was absolutely necessary. All of a sudden, his career at the Times seemed a lot less important.

'Hand me your cell phone and wallet, please.'

Smithback did as requested. Pendergast shoved them in the glove compartment and handed him an expensive leather billfold.

'What's this?'

'Your new identity.'

Smithback opened it. There was no money, only a Social Security card and a New York driver's license.

'Edward Murdhouse Jones?' he read off.

'Correct.'

'Yes, but Jones? Come on, what a cliche.'

'That's precisely why you'll have no trouble remembering it… Edward.'

Smithback shoved the wallet in his back pocket. 'How long is this going to last?'

'Not long, I hope.'

'What do you mean not long? A day or two?'

No answer.

'Where the hell are you taking me, anyway?'

'River Oaks.'

'River Oaks? The millionaire funny farm?'

'You are now the troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, a bit of undemanding therapy, and isolation from the hectic world.'

'Hold on, I'm not checking into any mental hospital-'

'You'll find River Oaks to be quite luxurious. You'll have a private room, gourmet food, and elegant surroundings. The grounds are beautiful-pity they are buried in two feet of snow at the moment. There's a spa, library, game room, and every imaginable comfort. It's housed in a former Vanderbilt mansion in Ulster County. The director is a very sympathetic man. He'll be most solicitous, I assure you. Most important, it is utterly secure from the killer who is determined to end your life. I am sorry I can't tell you more, I really am.'

Smithback sighed. 'This director, he'll know all about me, right?'

'He's got all the information he could possibly need. You will be well treated. Indeed, you are guaranteed special treatment.'