Dance Of Death

There had to be a way out. If the Count of Monte Cristo could escape the Chateau d'If, William Smithback could escape from River Oaks.

'Dr. Tisander, what do I have to do to get out of here?'

'Cooperate. Let us help you. Go to your sessions, devote all your energies to getting better, make a personal commitment to cooperate with the staff and orderlies. The only way anyone leaves here is carrying a document with my signature release on it.'

'The only way?'

'That's correct. I make the final decision-based, of course, on expert medical and, if necessary, legal advice.'

Smithback looked at him. 'Legal?'

'Psychiatry has two masters: medicine and law.'

'I don't understand.'

Tisander was clearly getting into his favorite subject. His voice took on a pontifical ring. 'Yes, Edward, we must deal with legal as well as medical issues. Take yourself, for instance. Your family, who love you and are concerned for your welfare, have committed you here. That's a legal as well as a medical process. It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with utter scrupulousness.'

'I'm sorry… did you say my family?'

'That's right. Who else would commit you, Edward?'

'You know my family?'

'I've met your father, Jack Jones. A fine man indeed. We all want to do what's right for you, Edward.'

'What'd he look like?'

A puzzled expression crossed Tisander's face, and Smithback cursed himself for asking such an obviously crazy question. 'I mean, when did you see him?'

'When you were brought here. He signed all the requisite papers.'

Pendergast, Smithback thought. Damn him.

Tisander rose, held out his hand. 'And now, Edward, is there anything else?'

Smithback took it. The germ of an idea had seeded itself in his mind. 'Yes, one thing.'

Tisander raised his eyebrows, the same condescending smile on his face.

'There's a library here, isn't there?'

'Of course. Beyond the billiard room.'

'Thank you.'

As he exited, Smithback caught a glimpse of Tisander settling back down at his enormous claw-footed desk, smoothing his tie, his face still wearing a self-satisfied smile.

THIRTY-SIX

A watery winter light was fading over the river as D'Agosta reached the old door on Hudson Street. He paused for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. He'd followed Pendergast's complicated instructions to the letter. The agent had moved yet again-he seemed determined to keep one step ahead of Diogenes-and D'Agosta wondered, with a dull curiosity, what disguise he had assumed now.

Finally, having composed himself and taken one last look around to make sure there was no one near, he tapped on the door seven times and waited. A moment later, it was opened by a man who, from all appearances, was a derelict in the last stages of addiction. Even though D'Agosta knew this was Pendergast, he was startled- once again-by the effectiveness of his appearance.

Without a word, Pendergast ushered him in, padlocked the door behind him, and led him down a dank stairwell to a noisome basement room filled by a large boiler and heating pipes. An oversize cardboard carton piled with soiled blankets, a plastic milk crate with a candle and some dishware, and a neat stack of tinned food completed the picture.

Pendergast swiped a rag from the floor, exposing an iMac G5 with a Bluetooth wireless Internet connection. Beside it lay a well-thumbed stack of papers: the photocopied case file that D'Agosta had purloined from headquarters, along with other reports that, D'Agosta assumed, were from the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. Clearly, Pendergast had been studying everything with great care.

'I…' D'Agosta didn't quite know how to begin. He felt rage take hold once again. 'That bastard. That son of a bitch. My God, to murder Margo-'

He fell silent. Words just couldn't convey the shaking fury, turmoil, and disbelief he felt inside. He hadn't known Margo was back in New York, let alone working at the museum, but he'd known her well in years past. They'd worked together on the museum and subway murders. She'd been a brave, resourceful, intelligent woman. She hadn't deserved to go out like this: stalked and killed in a darkened exhibition hall.

Pendergast was silent as he rapped at the computer keyboard. But his face was bathed in sweat, and D'Agosta could see that was not part of the act. He was feeling it, too.

'Diogenes lied when he said Smithback would be the next victim,' D'Agosta said.

Without looking up, Pendergast reached into the crate and pulled out a ziplock bag with a tarot card and a note inside, handing it to D'Agosta.

He glanced at the tarot card. It depicted a tall, orange brick tower, being struck by multiple bolts of lightning. It was afire, and tiny figures were falling from its turrets toward the grass far beneath. He turned his attention to the note.

Ave, frater!

Since when did I ever tell you the truth? One would think after all these years you'd have learned by now I am a skillful liar. While you were busy hiding the braggart Smithback-and I commend you for your cleverness there, for I haven't yet found him-I was free to plot the death of Margo Green. Who, by the way, put up a most spirited struggle.

Wasn't it all so very clever of me?

I'll tell you a secret, brother: I'm in a confessional mood. And so I will name my next victim: Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta.

Amusing, what? Am I telling the truth? Am I lying again? What a delicious conundrum for you, dear brother.

I bid you, not adieu, but au revoir.

Diogenes

D'Agosta handed the note back to Pendergast. He felt a strange sensation in his gut. It wasn't fear-no, not fear at all-but a fresh groundswell of hatred. He was shaking with it.

'Bring the motherfucker on,' he said.

'Have a seat, Vincent. We have very little time.'

It was the first thing Pendergast had said, and D'Agosta was silenced by the deep seriousness in his voice. He eased himself down onto a crate.

'What's with the tarot card?' he asked.

'It's the Tower, from El Gran Tarot Esoterico variant of the deck. The card is said to indicate destruction, a time of sudden change.'

'No kidding.'

'I've spent all day compiling a list of potential victims and making arrangements for their protection. I've had to call in virtually every favor I'm owed, which will have the unfortunate collateral effect of blowing my cover. Those I have dealt with have promised to keep things to themselves, but it's only a matter of time before the news will come out that I'm alive. Vincent, take a look at this list.'

D'Agosta leaned over and looked at the document on the screen. On it were a lot of names he recognized, along with many others he didn't know.

'Is there anyone else you feel should be on here?'

D'Agosta stared at the list. 'Hayward.' The thought of her sent a twinge through his gut.

'Hayward is the one person I know whom Diogenes will certainly not target. There