Dance Of Death

'About the allegations.'

'You publish that and my lawyers will eat you for breakfast!'

'Take on the Times? I don't think so.' Smithback spoke mildly and waited, giving Collopy plenty of time to think things out to the inevitable, preordained conclusion.

'Damn it!' Collopy said, spinning on his heel. 'I suppose we'll just have to bring it out and have it certified.'

'An interesting suggestion,' said Smithback.

Collopy paced. 'It'll need to be done publicly, but under tight security, of course. We can't just invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry in to watch.'

'May I suggest that all you really need is the Times'? The others will follow our lead. They always do. We're the paper of record.'

Another turn. 'Perhaps you're right.'

Another pace across the room, another turn. 'Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get a gemologist to certify that the stone held by our insurance company is, in fact, Lucifer's Heart. We'll do it right there, at Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters, under the tightest security. You'll be the only journalist there and, damn it, you'd better write an article that will scotch those rumors once and for all.'

'If it's genuine.'

'It'll be genuine or the museum will end up owning Affiliated Transglobal Insurance, so help me God.'

'What about the gemologist? He'd have to be independent, for credibility.'

Collopy paused. 'It's true we can't use one of our own curators.'

'And his reputation will obviously need to be unimpeachable.'

'I'll contact the American Council of Gemologists. They could send one of their experts.' Collopy walked to the desk, picked up the phone, and made several calls in rapid succession. Then he turned back to Smithback.

'It's all arranged. We'll meet at the Affiliated Transglobal headquarters, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, forty- second floor, at one o'clock precisely.'

'And the gemologist?'

'A fellow named George Kaplan. Said to be one of the best.' He glanced at Smithback. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do. See you at one.' He hesitated. 'And thank you for your discretion.'

'Thank you, Dr. Collopy.'

SIXTY

D'Agosta listened to the sirens coming across the dunes. They grew louder, receded, then grew louder again. From his days with the Southampton P.D., he recognized the tinny sound as coming from the cheap units mounted on the dune patrol buggies.

They'd sat here in the shadow of a sand dune, hiding, assessing the situation, at least five minutes. If he remained on the beach, there was no way their truck was going to escape dune buggies. And yet if he went back on the street, he'd be nabbed immediately, now that they knew his approximate location, vehicle, and license plate.

They were now near Southampton, D'Agosta's old stomping ground, and he knew the lay of the land, at least in general terms. There had to be a way out. He would just have to find it.

He started the truck, popped the emergency brake.

'Hold on to your seat,' he said.

Pendergast, who had apparently finished making a string of cell phone calls, glanced over. 'I am in your hands.'

D'Agosta took a deep breath. Then he gunned the engine, the pickup digging out of the hollow and climbing the side of a dune, shooting huge jets of sand behind them. They plunged into another depression, wound around several dunes, then climbed diagonally up the flank of an especially large one that separated them from the mainland. As they topped it, D'Agosta got a backward glimpse of several patrol buggies scooting along the hard sand a quarter mile back, with at least two others in the dunes themselves, no doubt following their tracks.

Shit. They were closer than he'd expected.

D'Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor as the pickup topped the dune. For a moment, they were airborne. Then they landed on the far side, bottoming out in the loose sand, churning and grinding their way through a patch of dense brush. The preserve ended, and the path ahead was blocked by several grand Hampton estates. As he fought with the wheel, D'Agosta quickly arranged the local topography in his head. If they could just get past the estates, he knew, Scuttlehole marsh lay beyond.

The dunes leveled out and he bashed the truck through a slat fence, emerging onto a narrow road. On the far side was a high boxwood hedge, surrounding one of the great estates. He tore alongside the hedge, and where the road curved up ahead, he saw what he was looking for-a sclerotic patch in the foliage-and he veered off, aiming directly for it. The pickup truck hit it at forty, bashed through the hedge, tearing off both mirrors in the process, and then they were accelerating across a ten-acre lawn, a huge Georgian mansion on the left, a gazebo and covered pool on the right, the way beyond blocked by an Italian rose garden.

He flashed past the pool at speed, ripped through the rose garden, nicked the arm off a sculpture of some naked woman, and crashed through a raised vegetable bed that lay beyond. Up ahead, like a green wall, stood another unbroken line of hedge.

Pendergast looked back through the rear window of the pickup truck, a pained expression on his face. 'Vincent, you're cutting quite a swath,' he said.

'They can add nude statue molestation to my growing list of crimes. For now, though, you'd better brace yourself.' And he accelerated toward the hedge.

They hit it with a shuddering crash that nearly stopped the vehicle dead. The engine coughed and sputtered, and for a moment D'Agosta feared it would die. But they fought their way out the far side of the hedge, still running. Across another narrow road, he could see a split-rail fence and, beyond that, the marshes surrounding Scuttlehole Pond.

For the past couple of weeks it had been cold-very cold. Now D'Agosta was going to find out if it had been cold enough.

He tore along the road until he found a break in the fence, then pointed the truck through it and went off-road again. He was forced to slow down as he wound through the sparse jack-pine forest that surrounded the marsh. He could still hear the sirens coming faintly from behind. If he had gained ground cutting through the estate, it was precious little.

The stunted pines gradually gave way to marsh grass and sandy flats. Ahead, he could see the dead stalks of cattail and yellow marsh grass. The pond itself seemed lost in the gray light.

'Vincent?' Pendergast said calmly. 'You're aware there's a body of water ahead?'

'I know.'

The pickup accelerated over the frozen verge of the marsh, the wheels sending shards of crackling ice skittering away on either side like a wake. The speedometer edged back up to thirty, then thirty-five, then forty. For what he was about to do, he was going to need all the speed he could get.

With a final slapping sound, the cattails scattering in their wake, the pickup truck was on the ice.

Pendergast gripped the door handle, the lattes forgotten. 'Vincent-?'

The truck was moving fast across the ice, breaking it as they went with a machine-gun chatter. D'Agosta could see in his rearview mirror that the ice was cracking and shattering behind them, some pieces even flung up and skittering away, black water slopping up. The sound of fracturing ice boomed across the lake like the reports of cannon.

'The idea is they won't be able to follow us,' said D'Agosta through clenched teeth.

Pendergast didn't answer.

The far shore, lined with stately homes, steadily approached. The truck felt almost like it was floating now, rising up and down like a powerboat on the continuously breaking crust of ice.

D'Agosta could feel he was losing momentum. He applied just a little more gas, being careful to ease down