Dance Of Death

reader, pulled her card from her bag, and swiped it through.

Nothing.

As quickly as it had come, the relief ebbed away, replaced by a dull, pounding fear. Of course: the magnetic lock was electric and the power was off. She tried opening the door, rattling the knob and throwing her weight against it, but it didn't budge.

'When the power goes off,' came the thin voice, 'the security system locks everything down. You can't get out.'

'Get close to me and I'll cut you!' she cried, spinning around and putting her back to the door, brandishing the box cutter at the darkness.

'You wouldn't want to do that. The sight of blood leaves me faint… faint with pleasure.'

In the clarity of her fear, Margo realized that she had to stop responding. She had to go on the offensive. She fought to control her breathing, control her fear. She had to do something unpredictable, surprise him, turn the tables. She took a noiseless step forward.

'What does the sight of blood do to you, Margo?' came the gentle whisper.

She inched toward the voice.

'Blood is such a strange substance, isn't it? Such a perfect, exquisite color, and so teeming with life, packed with all those red and white cells and antibodies and hormones. It's a living liquid. Even spilled on a dirty museum floor, it lives on-at least for a time.'

She took another step toward the voice. She was very close now. She braced herself. Then, in one desperate motion, she sprang forward and brought the box cutter around in a slashing arc; it contacted something and ripped through it. As she jumped back, she heard a stumbling noise, a muffled sound of surprise.

She waited, tensing in the blackness, hoping she'd opened up an artery.

'Brava, Margo,' came the whispery voice. 'I'm impressed. Why, you've ruined my greatcoat.'

She began circling the voice again, intending to strike a second time. She had him on the defensive now. If she could wound him, preoccupy him, she'd buy herself enough time to run back into the exhibition. If she could do that, put half a dozen rooms between herself and this evil, disembodied voice, he'd never find her in the blackness. She could wait for the guards to make their next set of rounds.

There was a low, breathy chuckle. The person seemed to be circling her at the same time. 'Margo, Margo, Margo. You didn't really think you'd cut me?'

She lunged again, her arm sweeping only air.

'Good, good,' came the voice with another dry chuckle. The chuckle went on and on, hanging in the blackness, circling slowly.

'Leave me alone or I'll kill you,' said Margo, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

'What spunk!'

Instantly, Margo tossed her purse toward his voice, heard it strike, and followed up with a lightning-fast slash that met with just enough resistance to let her know she'd struck home.

'My, my, another good trick. You are far more formidable than I had supposed. And now you have cut me.'

As she turned to run, she felt, rather than heard, a sudden movement; she threw herself sideways, but the man seized her wrist and-with one terrible twist that cracked her bones-sent the box cutter flying. She cried out, struggling despite the unbearable pain shooting up her arm. He twisted again and she screamed, lashing out with her foot, landing a punch with her free hand, but the man pulled her up against him in a brusque, horrid movement that almost caused her to faint from the pain to her broken wrist. His hand was like a steel manacle around her arm, and his hot breath, smelling faintly of damp earth, washed over her.

'You cut me,' he whispered.

With a hard shove, he released her, stepping back. Margo fell to her knees, close to blacking out from shock and pain, holding her shattered wrist close against herself, trying to gather her wits, to determine where in the darkness the box cutter had fallen.

'Although I am a cruel man,' came the voice, 'I will not let you suffer.'

There was another swift movement, like the rush of a giant bat above her. And then she felt a stunning, searing blow from behind that dropped her to the ground. And as she lay there, she realized, with a sense of strange disbelief, that he had driven a knife into her back; that she'd been given a mortal blow. Yet still she clawed the floor, trying to rise, the sheer force of her will bringing her to her knees. It was no use. Something warm was running down her arm now, running onto the floor, as a different kind of blackness rushed in on her from all sides. The last thing she heard, coming from a great distance as if in a dream, was a final astringent chuckle…

THIRTY-FOUR

Laura Hayward walked quickly through the museum's Great Hall, the early morning light casting parallel banners through its tall bronze windows. She strode through the bands of light with purpose, as if the physical act of walking would somehow prepare her for what was to come. Beside her, almost skipping to keep up, was Jack Manetti, head of museum security. Behind them followed a silent but swift phalanx of NYPD homicide detectives and museum personnel.

'Mr. Manetti, I'm assuming the exhibition has a security system. Correct?'

'State-of-the-art. We're just completing a full overhaul.'

'Overhaul? Wasn't the exhibit alarmed?'

'It was. We've got redundancies built into each zone. Strange thing is, no alarm went off.'

'Then how'd the perp get in?'

'At this point, we have no idea. We've compiled a list of everyone who had access to the exhibition space.'

'I'll want to talk to them all.'

'Here's the list.' Manetti pulled a printout from his jacket pocket.

'Good man.' Hayward took it, scanned it, handed it to one of the detectives behind her. 'Tell me about the system.'

'It's based on magnetic keys. The system keeps track of everyone coming and going after hours. I have a register of that, as well.' He handed her another document.

They rounded the corner of the Hall of Ocean Life. Hayward walked past the great blue whale, hanging ominously from the ceiling, without even a glance.

'Any key cards reported missing?'

'No.'

'Can they be duplicated?'

'I'm told it's impossible.'

'Someone could have borrowed a card, perhaps?'

'That's possible, although as of now all cards except the victim's are accounted for. I'll be looking into that specific question.'

'So will we. Of course, the perp might be a museum employee with prior access.'

'I doubt it.'

Hayward grunted. She doubted it herself, but you never knew- she'd seen more than her share of certifiable lunatics wandering around this old pile. As soon as she'd heard about this case, she'd asked to be assigned, despite still being busy with the Duchamp murder. She had a theory-no, call it more of a premonition-that the two were connected. And if she was right, it was going to be big. Very big.

They passed through the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, then stopped before the oversize portal leading to the Sacred Images exhibition. The door itself was open but taped off, and beyond, Hayward could hear the murmurings of the SOC team working the scene. 'You, you, and you'-she jabbed her finger at detectives in turn- 'pass the tape with me. The rest wait here and keep back the curious. Mr. Manetti? You come, too.'

'When Dr. Collopy arrives-?'

'This is a crime scene. Keep him out. I'm sorry.'