Dance Of Death

'Grab him and demand an answer.'

'I would prefer not to touch him.'

'Grab him. Get physical. Force him to answer.'

'He's still laughing.'

'Hit him.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Hit him.'

'I won't carry on with this charade.'

'Take the gun away from him.'

'He's dropped the gun, but-'

'Pick it up.'

'All right.'

'Shoot him. Kill him.'

'This is utterly absurd-'

'Kill him. Do it. You've killed before; you know how to do it. You can and you must do it.'

A long silence.

'Did you do it?'

'This is an asinine exercise, Dr. Krasner.'

'But you did imagine it. Didn't you? You imagined killing him.'

'I imagined no such thing.'

'Yes, you did. You killed him. You imagined it. And now you are imagining his dead body on the ground. You see it because you cannot help but see it.'

'This is…' Pendergast's voice trailed of.

'You see it, you can't help but see it. Because I am telling you to, you are seeing it… But wait-he's not yet dead… He moves, he still lives… He wants to say something. With his last dying strength, he beckons you closer, says something to you. What did he just say?'

A long silence. Then Pendergast answered dryly, 'Qualis artifex pereo.'

Glinn winced. He recognized the quotation but could see that Krasner did not. What should have been a breaking point for Pendergast had suddenly turned into an intellectual game.

'What does that mean?'

'It's Latin.'

'I repeat: what does it mean?'

'It means 'O, what an artist dies with me!''

'Why did he say that?'

'Those were Nero's last words. I believe Diogenes was speaking facetiously.'

'You have killed your brother, Aloysius, and now look on his body.'

An irritated sigh.

'This is the second time you have done it.'

'The second time?'

'You killed him once before, years ago.'

'Pardon me?'

'Yes, you did. You killed whatever goodness was in him; you left him a hollow shell filled with malice and hatred. You did something to him that murdered his very soul!'

Despite himself, Glinn found he was holding his breath. The gentle, soothing tones were long gone: Dr. Krasner had slipped into phase three, once again with unusual swiftness.

'I did no such thing. He was born that way, empty and cruel.'

'No. You. killed his goodness! There is no other possible answer.

Don't you see, Aloysius? The hatred Diogenes feels for you is mythological in its immensity. It cannot have sprung from nothing; energy can neither be created nor destroyed. You created that hatred, you did something to him that struck out his heart. All these years, you have repressed this terrible deed. And now you have killed him again, literally as well as figuratively. What you must face, Aloysius, is that you are the author of your own fate. You are at fault. You did it.'

Another long silence. Pendergast lay on the couch, unmoving, his skin gray, waxlike.

'Now Diogenes is rising. He is looking at you again. I want you to ask him something.'

'What?'

'Ask Diogenes what you did to him to make him hate you so.'

'Done.'

'His answer?'

'Another laugh. He said, 'I hate you because you are you.''

'Ask again.'

'He says that is reason enough, that his hatred has nothing to do with anything I did, it simply exists, like the sun, moon, and stars.'

'No, no, no. What is it that you did, Aloysius?' Krasner's voice was once again gentle, but it had great urgency. 'Unburden yourself of it. How terrible it must be to carry that weight on your shoulders. Unburden yourself.'

Slowly, Pendergast arose from the couch, swinging his legs over the side. For a moment, he sat motionless. Then he passed a hand across his forehead, looked at his watch. 'It is midnight. It is now January 28, and I am out of time. I can't be bothered with this exercise anymore.'

He stood and turned to Dr. Krasner. 'I commend you on your valiant effort, Doctor. Trust me, there's nothing in my past that would justify Diogenes's conduct. In the course of my career studying the criminal mind, I have come to realize a simple truth: some people are born monsters. You can elucidate their motives and reconstruct their crimes-but you cannot explain the evil within them.'

Krasner looked at him, great sadness in his face. 'There's where you're wrong, my friend. Nobody is born evil.'

Pendergast held out his hand. 'We shall differ, then.' Then his eyes turned directly toward the hidden camera, startling Glinn. How could Pendergast know where it was?

'Mr. Glinn? I thank you, too, for your effort. You should have plenty in that folder to complete the job at hand. I can help you no further. Something terrible will happen today, and I must do everything in my power to stop it.'

And he turned and walked briskly from the room.

FORTY-TWO

The mansion at 891 Riverside Drive lay above one of the most complex geological areas of Manhattan. Here, beneath the litter-strewn streets, the bedrock of Hartland schist yielded to a different formation, the Cambrian Manhattan. The gneiss of the Manhattan Formation was particularly faulted and contorted, and riddled with weak areas, cracks, and natural tunnels. One such weak area, several centuries ago, had been enlarged to form the passage from the mansion's sub-basement to the weed-choked shore of the Hudson River. But there were other tunnels, older and more secret, that burrowed beneath the mansion into dark and unknown depths.

Unknown to all, that is, but one.

Constance Greene moved slowly through one of these tunnels, descending with practiced ease into the blackness. Though she held a torch in one slim hand, it was not lit: she knew these deep and hidden spaces so well that light was not necessary. The passage was frequently narrow enough to allow her to follow both walls with her outstretched hands. Though the tunnel was of natural rock, the ceiling was tall and quite regular, and the