Dance of Death (17 page)

In this isolated spot, the soft lapping of oars could be heard. There was a faint plash as the green veil of weeds was lifted aside, exposing an underwater passage. It was a foggy, moonless night, and only the palest glint of light outlined a skiff as it entered the tunnel. Noiselessly, it slid forward beneath a low, rocky ceiling, easing up at last to the stone quay.

Pendergast stepped out of the skiff, tethered it to a cleat, and looked around, eyes glinting in the darkness. He remained still for several minutes, listening. Then he pulled a flashlight from his pocket, snapped it on, and headed up the staircase. At the top, he stepped out into a large room filled with wooden cases displaying weapons and armor, some modern, others dating back two thousand years. He passed through the room and into an old laboratory, beakers and retorts gleaming on long black-topped tables.

In one corner of the laboratory stood a silent, shadowy figure.

Pendergast came forward cautiously, one hand stealing toward his weapon. "Proctor?"

"Sir?"

Pendergast relaxed. "I got the signal from Constance."

"And I, in turn, got your message to meet here. But I must say I'm surprised to see you in person, sir."

"I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But as it happens, there's a message that I, in turn, must deliver to Constance, and it's one I felt had to be delivered in person."

Proctor nodded. "I understand, sir."

"From now on, it is
vital
that you keep a close eye on her. You know Constance, how fragile her mental condition is. How she appears on the surface is no indication at all of her true emotional state. You also know that she's been through what no other human being has. I fear that, if she is not treated with exceptional care and caution..."

His voice trailed off. After a moment, Proctor nodded again.

"This all couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm going to tell her that she needs to be ready at all times to return to
that
place ... where she first hid from us. Where nobody,
nobody,
could ever find her."

"Yes, sir."

"You found the breach?"

"It has been found and sealed."

"Where was it?"

"It seems that a nineteenth-century sewer tunnel runs under Broadway, just beyond the basement fruit cellars. It has not been used for fifty years. He was able to penetrate the fruit cellars from that tunnel, knocking a hole in the pipe."

Pendergast looked at him sharply. "He didn't find the staircase leading to this sub-basement?"

"No. It seems he was in the house for only a few moments. He was there just long enough to take the item from a first-floor cabinet and leave."

Pendergast continued to look fixedly at Proctor. "You must make sure the mansion is perfectly sealed. This
cannot
be allowed to happen again. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Good. Then let's go speak with her."

They passed out of the laboratory and through a series of chambers filled with glass-fronted cabinets and tall cases full of seemingly endless and impossibly eclectic collections: stuffed migratory birds, Amazonian insects, rare minerals, bottled chemicals.

At last, in a room full of butterflies, they stopped. Pendergast licked the flashlight over the ranks of display cases. Then he spoke quietly into the darkness.

"Constance?"

Only silence answered.

"Constance?" he said again, just a trifle louder.

There was a faint rustle of linen; then a woman of about twenty appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She wore a long, old-fashioned white dress with lace ruffling around the throat. Her delicate skin was very pale in the light of the flashlight.

"Aloysius," she said, embracing him. "Thank God."

For a moment, Pendergast simply held her close. Then he gently detached himself and turned away for a minute, twisting a small brass knob set into one wall. The chamber filled with faint light.

"Aloysius, what's the matter?" Her eyes-strangely wise for a face so young-grew anxious.

"I'll tell you in a moment." Pendergast placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me about the message."

"It arrived late this evening."

"Method of delivery?"

"It was slipped into a crack beneath the front door."

"You took the necessary precautions?"

Constance nodded. Then she reached into one of her sleeves and drew out a small ivory business card, carefully sealed inside a glassine envelope.

Pendergast took the card, turned it over.
Diogenes Pendergast
was engraved in fine copperplate on the card's face: below that, in rose-colored ink, had been written:
The Five of Swords is Smithback.

He stared at the card for a long moment. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket.

"What does it mean?" Constance asked.

"I hesitate to tell you more. Your nerves have been strained enough already."

Constance smiled faintly. "I must say, when you walked into the library, I was sure I was seeing a-a
revenant."

"You know my brother's plans, how he intends to destroy me."

"Yes." Constance went even paler and for a moment seemed to stagger slightly. Pendergast placed his hand on her shoulder.

She mastered herself with effort. "I'm fine, thank you. Do go on."

"He has already begun. Over the last several days, three of my closest friends have been killed." Pendergast touched his jacket pocket. "This note from Diogenes puts me on notice that William Smithback is the next target."

"William Smithback?"

"He's a reporter for the
New York Times."
Pendergast hesitated again.

"And?" Constance asked. "There's something else troubling you- I can see it in your face."

"Yes. The first three who died were all very close to me. But that isn't the case with Bill Smithback. I've known him for several years. He was involved in three cases of mine, a very effective journalist. And despite an impulsive and somewhat careerist exterior, he is a good man. What troubles me, however, is that he's more an acquaintance than a friend. Diogenes is casting his net wider than I thought. It isn't just close friends who are at risk. And that makes the situation even more difficult than I thought."

"How can I help?" Constance asked in a low tone.

"By keeping yourself absolutely safe."

"You think-?"

"That you're a possible target? Yes. And there's something more. The third man to die was Michael Decker, an old FBI associate of mine. I found Mike's body yesterday, in his Washington house. He had been killed with an old bayonet. The modus operandi was a nod to a distant ancestor of mine, who died in a very similar fashion as an officer in Napoleon's army, during the Russian campaign of 1812."

Constance shivered.

"What concerned me was the weapon itself. Constance, that bayonet came from the collections
of this very house."

She froze for a moment as the implications of this sank home. "The chasepot or the lebel?" she asked faintly, almost robotically.

"The chasepot. It had the initials
P.S.P.
engraved onto the quillon. Quite unmistakable."

But Constance did not reply. Her alert, intelligent eyes had sharpened, deepened, with fear.

"Diogenes has found entrance to this house. No doubt that was the message he intended to deliver to me with that particular bayonet."

"I understand."

"You're still safer within this house than without, and for now you are not in Diogenes's sights. Proctor here has found and sealed the weak point through which Diogenes entered, and as you know, this mansion has been hardened against intruders in many ways. Proctor will be ceaselessly vigilant, and he is more formidable than he looks. Still, you must be on constant guard. This is a very old and vast house. It has a great many secrets. You know those secrets better than anyone. Follow your instincts. If they tell you something is not right, melt into those recesses of the house that only you know. Be ready at a moment's notice. And until we can once again feel safe from this threat, I want you to sleep in that secret space where you first hid from me and from Wren."

At this, Constance's eyes went wide and wild. She clutched at Pendergast.
"No!"
she cried passionately. "No, I don't ever want to go back there again!"

Pendergast immediately put his arms around her. "Constance-"

"You know how it reminds me of
that
time! The dark spaces, the terrible things ... I don't wish to be reminded, ever again!"

"Constance, listen to me. You'll be safe there. And I can't do what needs to be done without knowing you're safe."

Constance did not respond, and Pendergast pressed her more tightly. "Will you promise me that?"

She laid her forehead against his chest.

"Aloysius," she said, her voice breaking. "It was just a few months ago we sat in the library, upstairs. You read to me from the newspapers. Do you remember?"

Pendergast nodded.

"I was beginning to
comprehend.
I felt like a swimmer, coming to the surface after being so long underwater. I want that again. I don't want to go ... to go
down
again. You do understand, don't you, Aloysius?"

Pendergast caressed her brown hair gently. "Yes, I understand. And everything will be as you want it, Constance. You will get better, I promise. But we must get through this first. Will you help me do that?"

She nodded.

Slowly, Pendergast lowered his arms. Then he took her forehead between his hands and, bringing her close, kissed it gently. "I must go."

And he turned, darted back into the waiting darkness, and was gone.

TWENTY-ONE

 IT was quarter to eight when Smithback emerged from his apartment building, glanced up West End Avenue, and stretched out his hand for a taxi. A beat-up yellow cab that had been idling at the far end of the block pulled forward obediently, and Smithback got in with a sigh of regret.

"Forty-fourth and Seventh," he said. The driver-a thin, olive-skinned man with black hair and a bad complexion-muttered a few words in some unknown tongue and screeched away from the curb.

Smithback settled back, glancing out at the passing cityscape. By rights, he should still be in bed, arms around his new wife, deliriously asleep. But the image of Harriman, sitting in their editor's office with that insufferably smug look on his face, had spurred him into rising early to flog the story some more.

You'll both share information and leads,
Davies had said. Hell with that. Smithback knew Harriman wasn't planning to share jack shit, and for that matter neither was he. He'd check in at the office, make sure nothing disagreeable had happened overnight, and then hit the pavement. The article he'd turned in the night before had been weak, and he had to get something better. He
had
to, even if it meant buying a damn apartment in Duchamp's building. Now, there was an idea: calling a real estate agent and posing as a prospective buyer ….

The driver turned sharply left onto 72nd. "Hey, watch it," Smithback said. "I'm nursing a war wound back here." For once, the driver had closed the shield of Plexiglas that separated the front from the back. The cab stank of garlic, onions, and cumin, and Smithback opened the rear window. As usual, the damn thing only went down about a third of the way. Smithback's mood, already low, fell lower.

It was probably just as well he'd left the apartment ninety minutes early. Nora had been in a foul mood for several days now, getting hardly any sleep and working at the museum until well past midnight. That, plus the frosty exchange between her and Margo Green the other night at the Bones, was weighing on him heavily. Margo was an old friend and it pained him the two didn't get along.
They're too much alike,
he thought.
Strong-willed and smart.

Ahead lay the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Instead of turning south onto the highway and heading toward Midtown, the driver gunned the cab up the merge ramp onto the northbound lanes.

"What the hell?" Smithback said. "Hey, you're going the wrong way!"

In response, the driver jammed down harder on the accelerator, veering past blaring horns and into the far left lane.

Shit, the guy's English is worse than I thought.
Smithback pounded on the heavy shield of scratched Plexiglas. "You're going the wrong way. Okay?
The
-
wrong
-
way.
I said 44th Street. Get off at 95th and turn around!"

The driver didn't respond. Instead, he continued to accelerate, weaving in and out of lanes as he passed car after car. The 95th Street exit came and went in a flash.

Smithback's mouth went dry.
Jesus, am I being kidnapped or something?
He grabbed for the door lock, but as with most cabs the outer knob had been removed and the pull itself was engaged, sunk beneath the level of the window frame.

He renewed his frantic tattoo against the Plexiglas shield. "Stop the car!" he yelled as the cab squealed around a bend. "Let me out!"