Dance Of Death

'I'll make it my mission in life! I'll dog you like the Furies dogged Orestes. I'll take away everything you have, your job, your reputation, this whole pile. As you know, I'm as rich as Croesus. Check my file. I know for a fact you cut that corner! There's no independent evaluation, and you know it!'

Smithback felt himself being dragged bodily toward the door.

'Shut the door on your way out, will you, Jonathan?' Dr. Tisander said.

'Tisander?' Smithback raised his voice. 'Can you afford to make this mistake? You'll lose the whole enchilada, you son of a-!'

Jonathan shut the door to the office. 'Come on, Jones,' he said, giving Smithback a gentle push down the hall. 'Give it a rest.'

'Get your hands off me!' Smithback cried, struggling.

'Hey, man, I'm just doing my job,' said the orderly calmly.

Smithback relaxed. 'Right. Sorry. I imagine it's about as much fun working here as it is being a 'guest.''

The orderly released him and Smithback dusted off his jacket. 'All right, Jonathan,' he said, mustering a feeble smile. 'Escort me back to my cage. I'll work up a new angle tomorrow.'

Just as they were turning the corner, Tisander's voice came echoing down the hall. 'Jonathan? Bring Mr. Jones back.'

Jonathan paused. 'Looks like you get another hearing.'

'Yeah, right.'

As they turned back toward Tisander's office, Smithback heard the low voice of the orderly behind him. 'Good luck.'

Smithback entered the office. Tisander was standing behind the desk, his figure rigid. Smithback saw his own file open on the director's desk. Next to it was the book he'd indicated-opened to page 337.

'Sit down,' Tisander said tersely. He nodded at the orderly. 'You can wait outside.'

Smithback took a seat.

'You think you're a clever fellow,' Tisander said. All the phony good humor and condescension was gone. His face was now as hard and gray as a boiled potato.

'I was right,' Smithback murmured, more to himself than to Tisander.

'A sheer technicality. There isn't a psychiatric hospital in the state that does independent evaluations. I don't think anyone's even aware of this ridiculous law. But under the circumstances, I can't afford to keep you here.'

'You're damn right you can't afford it. I'll sue your ass from here to Albany-'

Tisander closed his eyes and held up a hand. 'Mr. Jones, please. Our intention was to help you, but I'll be damned if I'll let some spoiled brat undo all the good I've built up over the years. Frankly, you're not worth it.'

'So I'm free?'

'As soon as I write up the decommitment papers. Unfortunately, it's almost lockdown. You won't be able to leave until six a.m. tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow?' Smithback echoed, almost afraid to believe his ears.

'Believe me, I'd love to get rid of you now. Jonathan?'

The orderly came back in.

'Mr. Jones is to be discharged in the morning. See to it he's given every consideration until then.'

They exited the office, and as soon as the door closed, Smithback grinned. 'Jonathan, I'm outta here.'

Jonathan high-fived him with a big smile. 'Man, how'd you do it?'

Smithback shrugged. 'Sheer brilliance.'

FIFTY

Nora Kelly paused on the corner of 77th Street and Museum Drive, looking northward. The great Romanesque entrance to the museum was lit up with spotlights, a five-story banner touting the opening hung on the facade. Below, the drive was packed with the usual New York chaos of limos and black Mercedes, disgorging patrons and celebrities in furs and black tie to successive waves of flashes. The inevitable red carpet had been rolled down the granite steps, which were roped off as if at a movie premiere, to keep back the press and the uninvited. The whole spectacle made her sick.

Margo Green had been brutally murdered just two days ago and buried this very morning-yet it was as if the museum had already dismissed and forgotten her. Nora wondered what would happen if she just turned around and went back to her apartment; but she already knew the answer: she might as well kiss her career good-bye. She was supposedly one of the stars of this show, as George Ashton had made all too clear to her. The show must go on.

Taking a deep breath, and pulling her woolen coat more tightly about her shoulders, she started forward. As she drew closer, she noticed a commotion off to one side. A group of short, heavyset men dressed in buckskins and wrapped in decorated blankets was standing in a circle, beating drums and chanting-some waving bundles of smoking sagebrush. After a moment of incomprehension, she suddenly realized what it was all about: the Tano protesters had arrived. She could see Manetti, the security director, talking with them and gesturing, flanked by a couple of NYPD cops and some museum guards. It seemed the commotion had begun to attract the attention of the guests, and some of them were coming over to see what was happening.

'Excuse me!' Nora pushed her way through some gawkers, ducked under the velvet rope, stuck her museum badge in the face of a protesting guard, and approached the group of Indians. At that very moment, a beautiful young woman came sweeping up: a star or starlet of some kind, judging by the trail of paparazzi that followed in her wake.

'This is private property,' Manetti was saying to what Nora assumed was the leader of the Tanos. 'We don't object to your protesting, but you have to do it down there, on the sidewalk-'

'Sir,' the leader began in a quiet voice, 'we are not protesting, we are praying-'

'Whatever. This is private property.'

The celebrity waded in. With a jolt, Nora recognized her as movie star Wanda Meursault, tall, exotic, and vaguely foreign, rumored to be in line for best actress at the upcoming Academy Awards.

'Hold on! Why shouldn't these people have a right to pray?' she demanded to a dozen simultaneous flashes. A thicket of boomed mikes came swinging around to capture every deathless word that might drop from her lips, and TV lights fired up.

Instantly, Nora saw a P.R. disaster in the making.

'I'm not saying they can't pray,' Manetti said, exasperation strong in his voice. 'All I'm saying is that this is private property-'

'These Native Americans are praying.' Meursault turned and asked, as an afterthought: 'Why are you praying?'

'We're praying for our sacred masks, locked in a case in the museum,' the leader said.

'They've locked up your sacred masks?' The actress's face bloomed in mock horror.

The cameras zeroed in.

Something had to be done-and fast. Nora shoved forward, pushing aside a policeman and jostling Manetti to one side.

'Hey, just a minute,' the security director began.

'Nora Kelly, assistant curator of the exhibition,' Nora explained to the cop, dangling her badge before every official face within reach. She turned to the security director. 'I'll handle this, Mr. Manetti.'

'Dr. Kelly, these people are trespassing on museum property-'

'I know that. I'll handle it.'

Manetti fell silent. Amazing, Nora thought, how quickly a sharp tone and an air of authority-an authority she didn't have-could turn the tables.

She turned to the Tano leader, startled to see he was old, at least seventy. The calmness and dignity in his