Dance Of Death

the director was not in on the deception. The 'necessary documents' were probably legal papers of commitment. The full scope of Pendergast's plan to protect him lay suddenly revealed. He couldn't leave even if he wanted to. And everything he said-all his protestations and denials and talk of a killer-only confirmed what the director had learned from reading his case files: that he was delusional. He swallowed, tried to sound as reasonable and sane as possible.

'Dr. Tisander, let me explain. The man who brought me up here, Special Agent Pendergast? He gave me a false identity, put me here in order to protect me from a killer. All those papers you have are forged. It's all a ruse. If you don't believe me, call the New York Times.

Ask them to fax up a picture of me, a description. You'll see that I'm William Smithback. Edward Jones doesn't exist.'

He stopped, realizing how crazy it must all sound. Dr. Tisander was still listening to him, smiling, giving him his full attention-but now Smithback recognized the nuances of that expression. It was pity, mixed perhaps with a faint expression of that relief with which the sane view the insane. That same expression had no doubt been on his own face at dinner last night as he listened to Throckmorton talk about a business meeting with God.

'Look,' he began again. 'Surely, you've heard of me, read my books. I've written three best-selling novels: Relic, Reliquary, and Thunderhead. If you have them in your library, you can see for yourself. My picture's on the back of all three.'

'So now you're a best-selling author as well?' Dr. Tisander allowed his smile to widen slightly. 'We don't stock our library with best sellers. They pander to the lowest common denominator of reader and-worse-tend to overexcite our guests.'

Smithback swallowed, tried to make himself sound the soul of sanity and reason. 'Dr. Tisander, I understand that I must sound crazy to you. If you would please allow me to make one call with that phone on your desk-just one-I'll show you otherwise. I'll talk to my wife or my editor at the Times. Either one will immediately confirm I'm Bill Smithback. Just one call-that's all I ask.'

'Thank you, Edward,' said Tisander, rising. 'I can see you'll have a lot to discuss with your therapist at your next session. I have to get back to work.'

'Damn you, make the call!' Smithback exploded, leaping to his feet and lunging for the phone. Tisander jumped back with amazing quickness, and Smithback felt his arms seized from behind by the two orderlies.

He struggled. 'I'm not crazy! You cretin, can't you tell I'm as sane as you are? Make the frigging call!'

'You'll feel better once you're back in your room, Edward,' the director said, settling back in his chair, composure returning. 'We will speak again soon. Please don't be discouraged; it's often difficult to transition to a new situation. I want you to know that we're here to help.'

'No!' Smithback cried. 'This is ridiculous! This is a travesty! You can't do this to me-'

Howling in protest, Smithback was gently-but firmly-escorted from the office.

TWENTY-NINE

while Margo was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Nora took a moment to look around the woman's unexpectedly large and elegant apartment. An upright piano stood against one wall, with some Broadway show tunes propped up on the music stand; next to it hung a number of nineteenth-century zoological engravings of odd animals. A set of shelves against one wall was packed with books, and a second set of shelves contained an assortment of interesting objects: Roman coins, an Egyptian glass perfume bottle, a small collection of bird's eggs, arrowheads, an Indian pot, a piece of gnarled driftwood, a fossilized crab, seashells, a couple of bird skulls, some mineral specimens, and a gold nugget-a miniature cabinet of curiosities. Hanging on the far wall was what Nora recognized as an exceptionally fine Eyedazzler Navajo rug.

It said something about Margo, Nora thought-that she was a more interesting person than she first appeared. And she had a lot more money than Nora had expected. This was no cheap apartment, and in a co-op building, no less.

Margo's voice echoed out of the kitchen. 'Sorry to abandon you, Nora. I'll just be another minute.'

'Can't I help?'

'No way, you relax. Red or white?'

'I'll drink whatever you're drinking.'

'White, then. We're having fish.'

Nora had already been savoring the smell of salmon poaching in a delicate court bouillon wafting from the kitchen. A moment later, Margo came in carrying a platter with a beautiful piece of fish, garnished with dill and slices of lemon. She set it down, returned to the kitchen, and came back with a cool bottle of wine. She filled Nora's glass and then her own, then sat down.

'This is quite a dinner,' said Nora, impressed not only with the cooking but with the trouble Margo had gone to.

'I just thought, with Bill away on assignment and the show coming up, maybe you needed a break.'

'I do, but I didn't expect anything quite this nice.'

'I like to cook, but I rarely have the opportunity-just like I never seem to have time to meet guys.' She sat down with a wry smile, brushing her short brown hair from her face with a quick gesture. 'So how's the show going?'

'This is the first night in a week that I've gotten out of there before midnight.'

'Ouch.'

'We're down to the wire. I don't see how they're going to make it, but everyone who's been through this before swears they always pull through in the end.'

'I know how that goes. I have to get back to the museum tonight as it is.'

'Really?'

Margo nodded. 'To put the next issue of Museology to bed.'

'My God, Margo. Then you shouldn't be wasting time making me supper.'

'Are you kidding? I had to get out of that dusty old heap, even if only for a few hours. Believe me, this is a treat for me as well.' She cut a piece of salmon and served Nora, then served herself, adding some spears of perfectly cooked asparagus and some wild rice.

Nora watched her arrange the food, wondering how she could have been so wrong about a person. It was true Margo had come on rather strong in their first few encounters, brittle and defensive, but outside of the museum she seemed a different person, with a largeness of spirit that surprised Nora. Margo was trying hard to make up for her nasty comment in the staff meeting, going beyond the generous apology she had already made to treat Nora to a home-cooked dinner.

'By the way, I just wanted you to know that I'm going ahead with that editorial. It may be a lost cause, but it's just something I feel I have to do.'

Nora felt a sense of admiration. Even with Menzies's support, it was a gutsy move. She herself had gone up against the museum administration, and it was no cakewalk-some of them could be extremely vindictive.

'That's awfully brave of you.'

'Well, I don't know about bravery. It's sheer stupidity, really, I said I was going to do it, and now I feel like I have to, even though the trustees have already ruled against me.'

'And your first issue, too.'

'First and perhaps last.'

'I meant what I said earlier. Even though I don't agree with you, I support your right to publish. You can count on me. I think everyone in the department would agree, except maybe Ashton.'

Margo smiled. 'I know. And I really appreciate that, Nora.'

Nora sipped the wine. She glanced at the label: a Vermentino, and a very good one. Bill, an inveterate wine snob, had taught her a lot over the last year or two.

'It's tough being a woman in the museum,' she said. 'While things are a lot better than they used to be, you