Dance Of Death

someday. It seemed incredible someone was out to kill him.

But already this personal pep talk was growing stale. At the time of his admittance, he'd still been dazed from the high-speed chase, struck dumb by the suddenness with which his life had been turned around. But now he'd had time to think. Plenty of time. And the questions-and dark speculations -just kept coming.

He told himself that at least there was no need to worry about Nora. On the drive up the New York Thruway, he'd called her himself using Pendergast's phone, making up a story about how the Times was sending him on an undercover assignment to Atlantic City to cover a casino scandal, rendering him incommunicado for a while. He had Pendergast's assurance Nora would be safe, and he had never known Pendergast to be wrong. He felt guilty about lying to her, but, after all, he had done it for her sake, and he could explain it all later.

It was his job that preyed most on his mind. Sure, they'd accept he was sick, and no doubt Pendergast would make it convincing. But in the meantime, Harriman would have free reign. Smithback knew that, when he finally got back after his 'convalescence,' he'd be lucky to get assigned even the Dangler story.

The worst of it was, he didn't even know how long he'd have to stay here.

He turned, pacing again, half mad with worry.

There came a soft knock at the door.

'What is it?' Smithback said irritably.

An elderly nurse stuck her gaunt head inside the room, raven hair pulled back in a severe bun. 'Dinner is served, Mr. Jones.'

'I'll be right down, thanks.'

Edward Jones, troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, and a bit of isolation from the hectic world. It seemed very strange indeed to be playing Edward Jones, to be living in a place where everybody thought you were somebody else. Especially somebody not quite right in the head. Only Pendergast's acquaintance, the director of River Oaks-a Dr. Tisander- knew the truth. And Smithback had seen him only in passing while Pendergast was dealing with the admittance paperwork; they hadn't yet had a chance to speak privately.

Exiting his room and closing the door behind him-there were no locks on any of the guests' doors, it seemed- Smithback walked down the long hallway. His footfalls made no noise on the thick rose-colored carpeting. The corridor was of polished, figured mahogany, dark with carved moldings. More oils lined the walls. The only sound was the faint moan of the wind outside. The huge mansion seemed cloaked in a preternatural silence.

Ahead, the corridor opened onto a large landing, framing a grand staircase. From around the corner, he heard low voices. Immediately, with a reporter's instinctive curiosity, he slowed his walk.

'…don't know how much longer I can take working in this loony bin,' came a gruff male voice.

'Ah, quit complaining,' came a second, higher voice. 'The work's easy, the pay's good. The food's great. The crazies are nice and quiet. What the hell's wrong with that?'

It was two orderlies. Smithback, unable to help himself, stopped short, listening.

'It's being stuck out here in the middle of frigging nowhere. On top of a mountain in the dead of winter, nothing around except miles of woods. It messes with your mind.'

'Maybe you should come back as a guest.' The second orderly guffawed loudly.

'This is serious,' came the aggrieved reply. 'You know Miss Havisham?'

'Nutcase Nellie? What about her?'

'How she always claims to be seeing people who aren't there?'

'Everyone in this joint sees people who aren't there.'

'Well, she's got me seeing things, too. It was early this afternoon. I was heading back up to the fifth floor when I happened to look out the staircase window. There was someone out there, I could swear it. Out there in the snow.'

'Yeah, right.'

'I'm telling you, I saw it. A dark form, moving fast in the trees. But when I looked back, it was gone.'

'Yeah. And how much J.D. had you had before this?'

'None. It's like I told you, this place is-'

Smithback, who'd been edging closer and closer to the edge of the corridor, overbalanced and stumbled forward into the landing. The two men-orderlies in somber black uniforms-abruptly drew apart, their expressions dissolving into emotionless masks.

'May we help you, Mr.-Mr. Jones?' one of them said.

'No, thanks. Just on my way down to the dining room.' Smithback made his way down the broad staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.

The dining room was a grand space on the second floor that reminded Smithback of a Park Avenue men's club. There were at least thirty tables within, but the room was so big it could have held dozens more comfortably. Each was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth and arrayed with gleaming-and extremely dull-silverware. Brilliant chandeliers hung from a Wedgwood-blue ceiling. Despite the elegant room, it seemed barbaric to eat dinner at 5 p.m. Guests were already seated at some of the tables, eating methodically, chatting quietly, or staring moodily at nothing. Others were shuffling slowly to their seats.

Oh, God, Smithback thought. The dinner of the living dead. He looked around.

'Mr. Jones?' An orderly came over, as obsequious as any maitre d', with the same smirk of superiority behind the mask of servility. 'Where would you care to sit?'

'I'll try that table,' he said, pointing to one currently occupied by only one young man, who was buttering a dinner roll. He was flawlessly attired-expensive suit, snowy white shirt, gleaming shoes- and he looked the most normal of the bunch. He nodded to Smithback as the journalist sat down.

'Roger Throckmorton,' the man said, rising. 'Delighted to meet you.'

'Edward Jones,' Smithback replied, gratified at the cordial reception. He accepted the menu from the waiter and, despite himself, grew quickly absorbed in the long list of offerings. He finally settled on not one, but two main courses-plaice a la Mornay and rack of spring lamb-along with an arugula salad and plover eggs in aspic. He marked his choices on the card beside his place setting, handed the card and the menu to the waiter, then turned once again toward Mr. Throckmorton. He was about Smithback's age, strikingly good- looking, with blond hair carefully parted, and smelling faintly of expensive aftershave. Something about him reminded Smithback of Bryce Harriman; he had that same air of old money and entitlement.

Bryce Harriman…

With a mighty effort, Smithback drove the image from his mind. He caught the eye of the man across the table. 'So,' he said, 'what brings you here?' He realized only after asking the question how inappropriate it was.

But the man didn't seem to take it amiss. 'Probably the same as you. I'm crazy.' And then he chuckled to show he was kidding. 'Seriously, I got in a bit of a scrape, and my father sent me up here for a short, ah, rest. Nothing serious.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Couple of months. And what brings you here?'

'Same. Rest.' Smithback cast around for a way to redirect the conversation. What do lunatics talk about, anyway? He reminded himself the extreme nutcases were kept in the quiet ward, located in another wing. Guests here, in the main section of the mansion, were simply 'troubled.'

Throckmorton placed his dinner roll on a plate, dabbed primly at his mouth with a napkin. 'You just arrived today, didn't you?'

'That's right.'

The waiter brought their drinks-tea for Throckmorton, a tomato juice for Smithback, who was annoyed he couldn't get his usual single-malt Scotch. His eye stole once again around the room. Everybody in the place moved so sluggishly, spoke so softly: it all seemed like a banquet in slow motion. Jesus, I don't think I can take much more of this. He tried to remind himself of what Pendergast had said-how he was the target of a murderer, how being here not only kept him safe, but Nora as well-yet already, even after a single day,