Dance of Death (21 page)

Exiting his room and closing the door behind him-there were no locks on any of the guests' doors, it seemed-Smithback walked down the long hallway. His footfalls made no noise on the thick rose-colored carpeting. The corridor was of polished, figured mahogany, dark with carved moldings. More oils lined the walls. The only sound was the faint moan of the wind outside. The huge mansion seemed cloaked in a preternatural silence.

Ahead, the corridor opened onto a large landing, framing a grand staircase. From around the corner, he heard low voices. Immediately, with a reporter's instinctive curiosity, he slowed his walk.

"...don't know how much longer I can take working in this loony bin," came a gruff male voice.

"Ah, quit complaining," came a second, higher voice. "The work's easy, the pay's good. The food's great. The crazies are nice and quiet. What the hell's wrong with that?"

It was two orderlies. Smithback, unable to help himself, stopped short, listening.

"It's being stuck out here in the middle of frigging nowhere. On top of a mountain in the dead of winter, nothing around except miles of woods. It messes with your mind."

"Maybe you should come back as a guest." The second orderly guffawed loudly.

"This is serious," came the aggrieved reply. "You know Miss Havisham?"

"Nutcase Nellie? What about her?"

"How she always claims to be seeing people who aren't there?"

"Everyone
in this joint sees people who aren't there."

"Well, she's got
me
seeing things, too. It was early this afternoon. I was heading back up to the fifth floor when I happened to look out the staircase window. There was someone out there, I could swear it. Out there in the snow."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm telling you, I
saw
it. A dark form, moving fast in the trees. But when I looked back, it was gone."

"Yeah. And how much J.D. had you had before this?"

"None. It's like I told you, this place is-"

Smithback, who'd been edging closer and closer to the edge of the corridor, overbalanced and stumbled forward into the landing. The two men-orderlies in somber black uniforms-abruptly drew apart, their expressions dissolving into emotionless masks.

"May we help you, Mr.-Mr. Jones?" one of them said.

"No, thanks. Just on my way down to the dining room." Smithback made his way down the broad staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.

The dining room was a grand space on the second floor that reminded Smithback of a Park Avenue men's club. There were at least thirty tables within, but the room was so big it could have held dozens more comfortably. Each was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth and arrayed with gleaming-and extremely dull-silverware. Brilliant chandeliers hung from a Wedgwood-blue ceiling. Despite the elegant room, it seemed barbaric to eat dinner at 5 p.m. Guests were already seated at some of the tables, eating methodically, chatting quietly, or staring moodily at nothing. Others were shuffling slowly to their seats.

Oh, God,
Smithback thought.
The dinner of the living dead.
He looked around.

"Mr. Jones?" An orderly came over, as obsequious as any maître d', with the same smirk of superiority behind the mask of servility. "Where would you care to sit?"

"I'll try that table," he said, pointing to one currently occupied by only one young man, who was buttering a dinner roll. He was flawlessly attired-expensive suit, snowy white shirt, gleaming shoes- and he looked the most normal of the bunch. He nodded to Smithback as the journalist sat down.

"Roger Throckmorton," the man said, rising. "Delighted to meet you."

"Edward Jones," Smithback replied, gratified at the cordial reception. He accepted the menu from the waiter and, despite himself, grew quickly absorbed in the long list of offerings. He finally settled on not one, but two main courses-plaice
à la Mornay
and rack of spring lamb-along with an arugula salad and plover eggs in aspic. He marked his choices on the card beside his place setting, handed the card and the menu to the waiter, then turned once again toward Mr. Throckmorton. He was about Smithback's age, strikingly good-looking, with blond hair carefully parted, and smelling faintly of expensive aftershave. Something about him reminded Smithback of Bryce Harriman; he had that same air of old money and entitlement.

Bryce Harriman...

With a mighty effort, Smithback drove the image from his mind. He caught the eye of the man across the table. "So," he said, "what brings you here?" He realized only after asking the question how inappropriate it was.

But the man didn't seem to take it amiss. "Probably the same as you. I'm crazy." And then he chuckled to show he was kidding. "Seriously, I got in a bit of a scrape, and my father sent me up here for a short, ah, rest. Nothing serious."

"How long have you been here?"

"Couple of months. And what brings you here?"

"Same. Rest." Smithback cast around for a way to redirect the conversation.
What
do
lunatics talk about, anyway?
He reminded himself the extreme nutcases were kept in the quiet ward, located in another wing. Guests here, in the main section of the mansion, were simply "troubled."

Throckmorton placed his dinner roll on a plate, dabbed primly at his mouth with a napkin. "You just arrived today, didn't you?"

"That's right."

The waiter brought their drinks-tea for Throckmorton, a tomato juice for Smithback, who was annoyed he couldn't get his usual single-malt Scotch. His eye stole once again around the room. Everybody in the place moved so sluggishly, spoke so softly: it all seemed like a banquet in slow motion.
Jesus, I don't think I can take much more of this.
He tried to remind himself of what Pendergast had said-how he was the target of a murderer, how being here not only kept him safe, but Nora as well-yet already, even after a single day, it was getting hard to bear. Why would a dangerous killer be after him? It made no sense. For all he knew, that Mercedes, that bullet, had been meant for Pendergast, not him. Besides, Smithback knew how to handle himself. He'd been in rough situations before-some of them really rough...

Once again, he forced his thoughts back to his dinner companion.

"So what do you ... think of the place?" he asked a little lamely.

"Oh, not a bad old pile, actually." There was an amused gleam in the man's eye as he spoke that made Smithback think he might have found an ally.

"You don't get tired of all this? Of not getting out?"

"It was much nicer in the fall, of course. The grounds are spectacular. The snow is a bit confining, I'll admit, but what's there to 'get out' to, anyway?"

Smithback digested this a moment.

"So what do you do, Edward?" Throckmorton asked. "For a living."

Smithback mentally reviewed Pendergast's briefing. "My father's an investment banker. Wall Street. I work for his firm."

"My family's on Wall Street, too."

A lightbulb went on in Smithback's head. "You're not
that
Throckmorton, are you?"

The man across the table smiled. "I'm afraid so. At least, one of them. We're a rather large family."

The waiter returned with their entrées-brook trout for Throckmorton, the twin dishes of plaice and lamb for Smithback. Throckmorton looked over at Smithback's heaping portions. "I hate to see a man with no appetite," he said.

Smithback laughed. This fellow wasn't crazy at all. "I never pass up a free meal."

He raised his knife and fork and tucked into the plaice. He began to feel ever so slightly better. The food was superb. And this Roger Throckmorton seemed a decent enough guy. River Oaks might just be bearable for another day or two if he had somebody to talk to. Of course, he'd have to be careful not to blow his cover.

"What do people here do all day?" he mumbled through a mouthful of fish.

"I'm sorry?"

Smithback swallowed. "How do you pass the time?"

Throckmorton chuckled. "I keep a journal and write poetry. I try to keep up with the market, in a desultory kind of way. In good weather, I like to stroll the grounds."

Smithback nodded, speared another piece of fish. "And the evenings?"

"Well, they have billiard tables in the first-floor salon, and games of bridge and whist in the library. And there's chess-that's fun when I can find a partner. But a lot of the time I just read. Recently, I've been reading a lot of poetry. Last night, for example, I began
The Canterbury Tales."

Smithback nodded his approval. "My favorite bit is 'The Miller's Tale.' "

"I think mine is the General Prologue. It's full of so much hope for renewal, for rebirth." Throckmorton sat back in his chair and quoted the opening lines.
"Whan that April with his showres soote / The droughte of March hath perced to the
roote."

Smithback cast his memory back over the prologue, managed to dredge up a few lines. "Or how about this:
Bifel that in that seson on a day, / In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
-"

"Fishing, with the arid plain behind me."

It took Smithback, who had turned his attention to the lamb, a moment to register this change. "Wait a minute. That's not Chaucer, that's-"

"Out, out, brief candle!" Throckmorton sat up very stiff, almost as if at attention.

Smithback paused in the midst of forking up a piece of lamb, the smile freezing on his face. "I'm sorry?"

"Did you hear something just now?" Throckmorton had paused as if listening, head cocked to one side.

"Ah ... no."

Throckmorton cocked his head again. "Yes, I'll take care of it right away."

"Take care of what?"

Throckmorton fixed him with an annoyed eye. "I wasn't speaking to you."

"Oh. Sorry."

Throckmorton rose from the table, dabbed primly at his lips, carefully folded his napkin. "I hope you'll forgive me, Edward, but I have a business appointment."

"Right," said Smithback, aware that the smile was still frozen on his lips.

"Yes." Throckmorton leaned over and said, in a conspiratorial whisper: "And it's a dreadful responsibility, I don't mind telling you. But when He comes calling, who are we to refuse?"

"He?"

"The Lord our God." Throckmorton straightened up, shook Smithback's hand. "It's been a pleasure. I hope we'll meet again soon."

And he walked with a jaunty step out of the room.

TWENTY-FIVE

D'Agosta walked slowly through the cavernous open space of the Homicide Division, feeling self-conscious. Even though he was a lieutenant in the NYPD, and had more or less carte blanche to wander the halls of One Police Plaza as he chose, he nonetheless felt as if he were a spy within enemy territory.

I must know more,
Pendergast had said.
Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical.
It was crystal clear what he meant: he needed the file on Charles Duchamp. And it was just as clear he expected D'Agosta to get it for him.

Only it hadn't been as easy as D'Agosta initially anticipated. He'd been back on the job just two days, and he'd been forced to spend more time than expected catching up on the Dangler case. The wack-job seemed to be getting more brazen with each crime: already he'd robbed three more ATMs in the two days D'Agosta was away. And now, with the Duchamp murder, there was less manpower available for stakeouts. Coordinating the two-man teams, talking with the branch managers at the affected banks, had eaten up a lot of time. The fact was, he'd been allocating more of the work than he should have, and he was way behind on interviewing potential eyewitnesses. But always, he remembered the urgency in Pendergast's voice. Therewas a message in that urgency: We
have to work fast, Vincent. Before he kills again.

And yet, though he'd wasted precious work hours poring through online records of the Duchamp murder, there was little in the wide-access database he didn't already know-or that Pendergast himself didn't have access to with his laptop. There was nothing else for it: he'd have to go get the case file.

In his left hand, he carried a small sheaf of papers: yesterday's interviews with a possible Dangler eyewitness, brought along merely as camouflage, something to hold. He glanced at his watch as he walked. Ten minutes to six. The huge room was still buzzing with activity-police officers talking together in small groups, on the phone, or, more commonly, typing at computers. Divisional offices always had 24/7 coverage, and in any precinct house, you were guaranteed to find-at any hour of the day or night-somebody at their desk, doing paperwork. Most of a cop's life was spent doing paperwork, it seemed, and nowhere was there more paperwork than in Homicide.

But D'Agosta didn't mind all the activity. In fact, he welcomed it. If anything, it helped him blend in. The important thing was that Laura Hayward would be away from
her
office. It was Thursday, and Commissioner Rocker would be holding one of his state-of-the-force meetings. Thanks to the Duchamp case, she was sure to be there.

He glanced a little guiltily toward the far end of the room. Her office was there, door wide open, desk covered with paperwork. At the sight of the desk, an electric current ran briefly through his loins. It wasn't many months ago that Laura's desk had been used for something quite different from paperwork. He sighed. But, of course, her office then had been on the floor above. And a hell of a lot had happened since-most of it bad.