Dance Of Death

Dr. Ostrom seemed to consider this. Then he nodded brusquely, turned, and left the room through a heavy steel door set in the back wall.

All was silent for several minutes. Then-at what seemed a great distance-the voice of an elderly lady could be heard raised in querulous complaint. D'Agosta and Hayward exchanged glances.

The raillery grew louder. Then the steel door opened again and Cornelia Pendergast was wheeled into view.

She was sitting in a wheelchair whose every surface was encased in thick black rubber. A small needlepoint pillow sat in her lap, on which rested her two withered hands. Ostrom himself pushed the wheelchair, and behind him came two orderlies wearing padded protective garments. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned dress of black taffeta. She looked tiny, with sticklike arms and a narrow frame, her face obscured by a mourning veil. It seemed impossible to D'Agosta that this frail-looking creature had recently slashed two orderlies. As she came into view and the wheelchair stopped, the string of invectives ceased.

'Raise my veil,' she commanded. Her southern accent was cultivated, almost British, in its modulations.

One of the orderlies approached and-standing at arm's length- lifted the veil with a gloved hand. Unconsciously, D'Agosta leaned forward, staring curiously.

Cornelia Pendergast stared back. She had a sharp, catlike face and pale blue eyes. Despite her advancing years, her liver-spotted skin had a strangely youthful glow. As he looked at her, D'Agosta's heart accelerated. He could see-in her intent gaze, in the lines of her cheekbones and jaw-faint outlines of his vanished friend. The resemblance would have been stronger but for the gleam of madness in her eyes.

For a moment, the room fell utterly silent. As Great-Aunt Cornelia held his gaze, D'Agosta became afraid she would erupt with anger at his lie.

But then she smiled. 'Dear brother. So good of you to come all this way to visit me. You've kept away so very long, you bad creature. Not that I blame you, of course-it's almost more than I can bear, living in the North with all these barbarous Yankees.' She gave a little laugh.

Okay, D'Agosta thought to himself. Constance had told him Great-Aunt Cornelia lived in a fantasy world and would believe herself to be in one of two places: Ravenscry, her husband's estate north of New York City, or in the old Pendergast family mansion in New Orleans. Obviously, today she was in the former.

'Nice to see you, Cornelia,' D'Agosta replied guardedly.

'And who is this lovely young lady at your side?'

'This is Laura, my… my wife.'

Hayward shot him a glance.

'How delightful! I always wondered when you'd take a bride. High time the Pendergast line was invigorated by new blood. May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps? Or better still, your favorite, a mint julep?'

She glanced at the orderlies, who had taken up positions as far away from the woman as possible. They remained motionless.

'We're fine, thank you,' D'Agosta said.

'I suppose it's just as well. We have such dreadful help these days.' She flapped a hand toward the two orderlies behind her, who fairly jumped. Then she leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence across the room. 'I envy you. Life is so much more gracious in the South. People up here take no pride in being members of the servile class.'

As D'Agosta nodded in sympathy, a strange, dreamlike unreality began to settle over him. Here was this elegant old woman chatting amiably to a brother she'd poisoned almost forty years before. He wondered just how he was going to go about this. Ostrom had said to keep the meeting short. He'd better get to the point.

'How, ah, how is the family?' he asked.

'I'll never forgive my husband for bringing us up to this drafty pile. Not only is the climate dreary, but the lack of culture is shocking. My dear children are my comfort.'

The fond smile that accompanied this observation chilled D'Agosta. He wondered if she'd watched them die.

'Of course, there are no neighbors fit for company. As a result, my days are my own. I try to walk for the sake of my health, but the air is so raw I'm frequently driven inside. I've gone as pale as a ghost. See for yourself.' And from the pillow, she lifted up a thin, palsied hand for his inspection.

Automatically, D'Agosta stepped forward. Ostrom frowned and nodded for him to stay back.

'How about the rest of the family?' D'Agosta asked. 'I haven't heard from-from our nephews in a long time.'

'Aloysius comes to visit me here every now and then. When he needs advice.' She smiled again, and her eyes flashed. 'He's such a good boy. Attentive to his elders. Not like the other one.'

'Diogenes,' D'Agosta said.

Great-Aunt Cornelia nodded. 'Diogenes.' She gave a shudder. 'From the day he was born, he was different. And then there was his illness… and those peculiar eyes of his.' She paused. 'You know what they said about him.'

'Tell me.'

'Dear me, Ambergris, have you forgotten?'

For an uncomfortable moment, D'Agosta thought a look of skepticism passed over the old woman's face. But it soon vanished as her expression turned inward. 'The Pendergast bloodline has been tainted for centuries. There but for the grace of God go you and I, Ambergris.'

A suitably pious pause followed this statement. 'Young Diogenes was touched even from the beginning. A bad seed indeed. After his sudden illness, the darker side of our lineage reached full flower in him.'

D'Agosta remained silent, not daring to say more. After a moment, Great-Aunt Cornelia stirred and began again.

'He was a misanthrope from the beginning. Both boys were loners, of course-they were Pendergasts-but with Diogenes it was different. Young Aloysius had one close friend his age, I recall-he became quite a famous painter. And, dear me, Aloysius would spend a lot of time in the bayou among the Cajuns and others of that sort, to which I naturally objected. But Diogenes had no friends at all. Not a one. You remember how none of the other children would go near him. They were all scared to death of him. The illness made it so much worse.'

'Illness?'

'Very sudden-scarlet fever, they said. That's when his eye changed color, went milky. He's blind in that eye, you know.' She shuddered.

'Now, Aloysius, he was just the opposite. The poor boy was bullied. You know how we Pendergasts are frequent objects of scorn among the common folk. Aloysius was ten, I believe, when he began visiting that queer old Tibetan man down on Bourbon Street-he always had the most uncommon acquaintances. The man taught him all that Tibetan nonsense, you know, with the unpronounceable name, chang or choong something or other. He also taught Aloysius that peculiar way of fighting which guaranteed he was never bothered by bullies again.'

'But the bullies never picked on Diogenes.'

'Children have a sixth sense about that kind of thing. And to think Diogenes was younger and smaller than Aloysius.'

'How did the two brothers get along?' D'Agosta asked.

'Ambergris, you're not getting forgetful in your old age, are you, dear? You know Diogenes hated his older brother. Diogenes never cared for anyone but his mother, of course, but he seemed to put Aloysius in a special category altogether. After the illness particularly.'

She paused, and for a moment her mad eyes seemed to dim, as if she was peering far into the past. 'Surely, you remember Aloysius's pet mouse.'

'Oh, sure. Of course.'

'Incitatus he called it, after the emperor Caligula's favorite horse.

He was reading Suetonius at the time, and he used to walk around with the tiny beast on his shoulder, chanting: 'All hail Caesar's beautiful mouse, Incitatus!' I have a perfect horror of mice, you know, but the little