Dance Of Death

are reasons for this that I cannot yet explain to you.'

'And what about…' D'Agosta hesitated. Pendergast was an extremely private person and he wondered how he would react to him mentioning her name. 'Viola Maskelene?'

'I have thought a great deal about her,' he said in a low tone. He looked down at his white hands. 'She's still on the island of Capraia, which in many ways is a perfect fortress for her. It's almost impossible to get to, involving several days' travel. There's only one small harbor, and a stranger-no matter how disguised-would be instantly noted. Diogenes is here in New York. He can't reach her quickly, nor would he ever operate with a proxy. And finally'-his voice dropped-'Diogenes can know nothing of my-my interest in her. No one else in the world but you are aware of that. As far as Diogenes is concerned, she's simply a person I interviewed once with regard to a violin. On the other hand, if I were to take steps to protect her, it might actually alert Diogenes to her existence.'

'I can see that.'

'So in her case I have opted to leave things as is.'

He unclasped his hands. 'I have taken steps to protect the others, whether they like it or not. Which brings us to the most difficult question: what about you, Vincent?'

'I'm not going into hiding. As I said, bring him on. I'll be the bait. I'd rather die than run like a dog from Margo's killer.'

'I'm not going to argue with you. The risk you're taking is enormous-you know that.'

'I certainly do. And I'm prepared for it.'

'I believe you are. Margo's attack was patterned after the murder of a spinster aunt of mine, who was stabbed in the back with a pearl-handled letter opener by a disgruntled servant. It's still possible that there's evidence from the scene of the attack that can help lead us to Diogenes-I'll need your help there. When word of my continuing existence reaches the police, there is going to be a serious problem.'

'How so?'

Pendergast shook his head. 'When the time comes, you'll understand. How long you choose to stay with me is, of course, up to you. At a certain point, I intend to take the law into my own hands. I would never entrust Diogenes to the criminal justice system.'

D'Agosta nodded brusquely. 'I'm with you all the way.'

'The worst is yet to come. For me, and especially for you.'

'That bastard killed Margo. End of discussion.'

Pendergast placed a hand on his shoulder. 'You're a good man, Vincent. One of the best.'

D'Agosta did not respond. He was wondering at Pendergast's enigmatic words.

'I've arranged for all who might be likely targets of Diogenes to go to ground. That is phase one. And this brings us to phase two: stopping Diogenes. My initial plan failed utterly. It has been said: 'When you lose, don't lose the lesson.' The lesson here is that I cannot defeat my brother alone. I assumed that I knew him best, that I could predict his next move, that with enough evidence I could stop him myself. I've been proven wrong- devastatingly so. I need help.'

'You've got me.'

'Yes, and I'm grateful. But I was referring to another kind of help. Professional help.'

'Like what?'

'I'm too close to Diogenes. I'm not objective, and I'm not calm-especially now. I have learned the hard way that I don't understand my brother and never have. What I need is an expert psychological profiler to create a forensic model of my brother. It will be an extraordinarily difficult task, as he is a psychologically unique individual.'

'I know of several excellent forensic profilers.'

'Not just any will do. I need one who is truly exceptional.' He turned and began scribbling a note. 'Go to the Riverside Drive house and give this to my man Proctor, who will pass it on to Constance. If this individual exists, Constance will find him.'

D'Agosta took the note, folded it into his pocket.

'We're almost out of time: two days until January 28.'

'Any idea yet what the date could mean?'

'None, except that it will be the climax of my brother's crime.'

'How do you know he isn't lying about the date, too?'

Pendergast paused. 'I don't. But instinct tells me it's real. And at the moment, that's all I have left: instinct.'

THIRTY-SEVEN

Whit DeWinter III hunched over his fifteen-pound calculus textbook in the bowels of the Class of 1945 Library at Phillips Exeter Academy. He was staring at a formula made entirely of Greek letters, trying to pound it into his muddy brain. The midterm was in less than an hour and he hadn't even memorized half the formulas he'd need. He wished to hell he'd studied the night before instead of staying up so late, smoking weed with his girlfriend Jennifer. It had seemed like a good idea at the time… Stupid, so stupid. If he failed this test, his B in calculus would drop to a C, he'd have to go to UMass instead of Yale, and that would be it. He'd never get into medical school, he'd never have a decent job, he'd end up living out his miserable life in a split-level in Medford with some cow of a wife and a houseful of squalling brats…

He took a deep breath and dived once again into the tome, only to have his concentration broken by a raised voice from one of the nearby carrels. Whit straightened up. He recognized the voice: it was that sarcastic girl in his English lit class, the Goth with retro purple hair… Corrie. Corrie Swanson.

'What's your problem? Can't you see I'm studying here?' the voice echoed loudly across the sleek atrium of Academy Library.

Whit strained and failed to catch the calm, murmured answer.

'Australia? Are you nuts'?' came the raised reply. 'I'm in the middle of midterms! What're you, some kind of pervert?'

A couple of shushes came from students studying nearby. Whit peered above the edge of his carrel, glad for the diversion. He could see a man in a dark suit leaning over a carrel a few dozen yards away.

'He told you that? Yeah, right, let's see some ID.'

More murmuring.

'All right, hey, I believe you, and I'm all for a beach vacation. But right now? You've got to be kidding.'

More talk. More shushes.

'Okay, okay. All I can say is, if I fail biology, it'll be Pendergast's fault.'

He heard a chair scraping and saw Corrie Swanson rise from the carrel and follow the man in the suit. He looked like Secret Service, all buttoned down, square jaw, dark glasses. He wondered what kind of trouble Corrie was in now.

Whit watched her pass, her trim behind twitching invitingly in a slinky black dress with pieces of metal jingling from it, her purple hair falling in a thick cascade down her back, grading almost to black at the ends. Damn, she was cute, just as long as he didn't try to take her home to Father. The old man would kill him for dating a girl like that.

Whit turned his throbbing eyeballs back to the formula for finding the radius of curvature for a function of two variables, but it remained all Greek to him. Literally. The damn formula had so many squiggly letters it could be the first line of the Iliad, for all he knew.

He groaned again. His life was about to end. And all because of Jennifer and her magic bong…

A light snow had fallen on the white clapboard house that stood on the corner of Church Street and Sycamore Terrace in the quiet Cleveland suburb of River Pointe. The whitened streets were broad and silent, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light across thenocturnal landscape. The distant whistle of a train added a melancholy note