Dance Of Death

slowly on the accelerator. The truck roared, wheels spinning, the crackle and snap of ice growing louder.

Two hundred yards. He gave it more gas, but it just spun the wheels faster.

The amount of power being transferred from the wheels to the slick surface was steadily decreasing. The truck jerked, bounced, slowed, and began to slew sideways as the craquelure of failing ice spread out from them in all directions.

This is no time for half measures. D'Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor once again as he spun the wheel. The engine screamed, the truck accelerating, but not quite enough to stay ahead of the horrible disintegration of ice.

One hundred yards.

The engine was now screaming like a turbine, the truck still yawing sideways, moving now on inertia alone.

The far shore was close, but the truck was slowing with every passing second. Pendergast had scooped up the laptop and police radio under his arm, and seemed to be preparing to open his door.

'Not yet!' D'Agosta gave the wheel a sharp check, just enough to straighten out the truck. The nose, the heavier part, was still up, and as long as it stayed that way…

With a horrible sinking sensation, the front of the truck began to settle. There was a moment of breathless suspension. And then it nosed down sharply and slammed into the forward edge of ice, stopping the truck cold.

D'Agosta flung open the door and launched himself into the freezing water, clutching at the breaking edge of ice, gripping it, hauling himself up onto a jagged floe. He scrambled away crablike onto solid ice as the bed of the pickup truck swung upward vertically, the back wheels still spinning off watery slush-and then as he watched, the truck plunged straight down with a rush of forced air, slopping him with a wave of icy water, cakes of broken ice dancing and churning in its wake.

After the truck had vanished, there, on the far side of the gaping hole, stood Pendergast, standing on the ice as if he'd merely stepped out of the truck, computer and radio tucked under one arm, black coat dry and unruffled.

D'Agosta rose unsteadily to his feet on the groaning ice. They were a mere dozen yards from shore. He glanced back but the dune buggies had not yet appeared on the shore of the pond.

'Let's go.'

In a moment, they reached the shore and hid themselves behind a raised dock. The buggies were just arriving, their yellow headlights piercing the bitter gray air. The story that met their eyes was evident enough: a long, broken path of heaving ice that led most of the way across the lake to a gaping hole, littered with broken chunks of ice. A slick of gasoline was slowly rising and spreading in rainbow patterns.

Pendergast peered across the lake from between the slats of the dock. 'That, Vincent, was a most ingenious maneuver.'

'Thanks,' D'Agosta said through chattering teeth.

'It will take them a while to determine that we're still alive. Meanwhile, shall we see what the neighborhood has to offer in the way of transportation?'

D'Agosta nodded. He had never been so cold in his life. His hair and clothes were freezing, and his hands burned with the cold.

They crept up along the hedges of one of the great houses-all summer 'cottages,' currently shut up for the winter. The driveway was empty, and they moved around the side of the house and looked in the garage window.

There sat a vintage Jaguar on blocks, the wheels stacked in the gloom of one corner.

'That should do,' Pendergast murmured.

'Garage's alarmed,' D'Agosta managed to say.

'Naturally.' Pendergast glanced around, found a wire tucked behind a drainpipe, followed it to the garage door, and in a few minutes had found the alarm plate coupling.

'Very crude,' he said, jamming a stray nail behind the plate and prying it loose, being careful not to cut the connection. Then he picked the lock on the garage door, raised it a foot, and they slid underneath.

The garage was heated.

'Warm yourself, Vincent, while I get to work.'

'How in hell did you avoid going in the water?' D'Agosta said, standing directly on top of the heating vent.

'Perhaps my timing was better.' Taking off his coat and jacket and rolling up his crisp white sleeves, Pendergast set the four tires in place, jacked up one end of the car, slipped the tire on and bolted it, then followed the same procedure for the other three wheels.

'Feeling warmer?' he asked as he worked.

'Sort of.'

'Then if you don't mind, Vincent, open the hood and connect the battery.' Pendergast nodded toward a toolbox that sat in one corner.

D'Agosta pulled out a wrench, opened the hood, connected the battery, checked the fluid levels, and examined the engine. 'Looks good.'

Pendergast kicked away the final block and jacked down the last wheel. 'Excellent.'

'No one to call the cops about a stolen car.'

'We shall see. Although the area seems deserted for the winter, there's always the danger of a nosy neighbor. This 1954 Mark VII saloon is not an inconspicuous vehicle. Now for the moment of truth. Please get in and help me start her.'

D'Agosta clambered into the driver's seat and waited for instructions.

'Foot on the accelerator. Choke out. Gear in neutral.'

'Check,' D'Agosta said.

'When you hear the engine turn, give it a bit of gas.'

D'Agosta complied. A moment later, the car roared to life.

'Ease off the choke,' Pendergast said. He walked over to the alarm box, glanced around, picked up a long wire, attached it to both metal plates in the alarm, then opened the door. 'Take her out.'

D'Agosta eased the Jag out. Pendergast shut the garage door and got into the rear of the vehicle.

'Let's get the heat on in this baby,' said D'Agosta, fiddling with the unfamiliar controls as he drove onto the street.

'You do that. Pull over and let it run for a few minutes. I am going to lie down, and… ho, what's this?' He held up a loud sports jacket checkered in various shades of light green. 'A stroke of luck, Vincent! Now you look the part.'

D'Agosta drew off his sodden coat and tossed it on the floor, putting on the sports jacket instead.

'How becoming.'

'Yeah, right.'

At that moment, Pendergast's cell phone rang. D'Agosta watched as the agent plucked it from his pocket.

'Yes,' Pendergast said. 'I understand. Yes, excellent. Thank you.' And he hung up.

'We have three hours to get to Manhattan,' he said, checking his watch. 'Do you think you can manage it?'

'You bet.' D'Agosta hesitated. 'Now, you want to tell me who that was and what the heck you've been up to?'

'That was William Smithback.'

'The journalist?'

'Yes. You see, Vincent, at last-at long, long last-we might have been given a break.'

'How do you figure that?'

'Diogenes was the person who robbed the Astor Hall last night.'

D'Agosta turned to stare at him. 'Diogenes? You sure?'

'Undoubtedly. He's always had an obsession with diamonds. All these murders were just a horrible distraction to keep me busy while he planned his real crime: the robbing of the diamond hall. And he chose to take Viola last, to ensure my maximal distraction during the robbery itself. Vincent, it was a 'perfect' crime, after all, in a spectacular, public sense-not one aimed simply at