Dance Of Death

"There, that's finished. Tell me what's on your mind, Edward. How's the adjustment to life at River Oaks?" His voice was low and mellifluous, and the kindly lines of his face were smoothed by age. He had a domed forehead, from which white hair arose in a gravity-defying leonine shock not unlike Einstein's.

Smithback noticed that the two orderlies were standing against the wall behind him.

"Can I offer you any refreshment? Seltzer? Diet soda?"

"Nothing, thanks." Smithback gestured at the orderlies. "Do they have to be here?"

Tisander gave a sympathetic smile. "One of the house rules, alas. Just because I'm the director of River Oaks doesn't mean I'm above its rules."

"Well, if you're sure they can be trusted to keep quiet."

"I have absolute confidence in them." Tisander nodded encouragingly, gestured for Smithback to proceed.

Smithback leaned forward. "You know all about me, why I'm here, I assume."

"Naturally." A warm, concerned smile lit up the director's wise features.

"I agreed to come here for protection, for my own safety. But I have to tell you, Dr. Tisander, that I've changed my mind. I don't know how much you know about this killer who's supposedly after me, but bottom line, I can take care of myself. I don't need to be here any longer."

"I see."

"I've got to get back to my job in New York at the Times."

"And why is that?"

Smithback was encouraged by Dr. Tisander's receptiveness. "I was working on a very important story, and if I don't get back there, I'll lose it to another reporter. I can't afford that. This is my career. A lot's at stake here."

"Tell me about this story you're working on."

"It's about the Duchamp murder-you know it?"

"Tell me about it."

"A killer hung an artist named Duchamp out of a high-rise window, dropped him through the glass roof of a restaurant. This is one of those sensational stories that don't come along every day."

"Why do you say that?"

"The bizarre mode of death, the prominence of the victim, the fact that the killer seems to have escaped all detection-it's a super story. I can't let it go."

"Can you be more specific?"

"The details aren't important. I need to get out of here."

"The details are always important."

Smithback's feeling of encouragement began to evaporate. "It isn't just my job. There's my wife. Nora. She thinks I'm in Atlantic City undercover, working another story, but I'm sure she's worried about me. If I could just get out and call her, let her know I'm all right. We've only been married a few months. Surely, you understand."

"I certainly do." The director was listening with utmost sympathy and attention.

Smithback, encouraged anew, went on. "This supposed killer who's after me, I'm not concerned about him. I can look out for myself. I don't need to hide up here any longer, pretending to be some nutcase."

Dr. Tisander nodded again.

"So, anyway, that's it. Even though I was placed in here with the best of intentions, the fact is, I can't stay a moment longer." He rose. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to call for a car? I'm sure that Agent Pendergast will cover the cost. Or I'll be happy to send you a check once I get back to New York. He took away my wallet and credit cards on the way up here." He remained standing.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then the director sat forward slowly, leaned his arms on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. "Now, Edward," he began in his calm, kindly voice, "as you know-"

"And no more of this Edward business," Smithback interrupted with a flare of irritation. "The name's Smithback. William Smithback Jr."

"Please allow me to continue." A pause, another sympathetic smile. "I'm afraid I ca

"This isn't a request: it's a demand. I'm telling you, I'm leaving. You can't keep me here against my will."

Tisander cleared his throat patiently. "Your care has been entrusted to us. Your family has signed papers to that effect. You've been committed here for a period of observation and treatment. We're here to help you, and to do that, we need time."

Smithback stared incredulously. "Excuse me, Dr. Tisander, but do you think we could dispense with the cover?"

"What cover might that be, Edward?"

"I'm not Edward! Jesus. I know what you've been told, and there's no need for this pretense any longer. I need to get back to my job, to my wife, to my life. I tell you, I'm not worried about any killer. I'm leaving here. Now."

Dr. Tisander's face retained its kindly, patient smile. "You are here, Edward, because you are ill. All this talk of a job with the New York Times, about a cover story, about being hunted by a killer-that's what we're here to help you with."

"What?" Smithback spluttered again.

"As I said, we know a great deal about you. I have a file two feet thick. The only way for you to get better is to face the truth, to abandon these delusions and fantasies, this dreamworld you inhabit. You've never had a job at the Times or anyplace else. You're not married. There's no killer after you."

Smithback slowly sank back into his chair, holding on to the arms for support. A terrible chill came over him. Pendergast's words on the drive up from New York City returned to him, pregnant with ominous new meaning: The director knows all about you. He's fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. Smithback realized that, despite what he'd assumed-despite what Pendergast implied-the director was not in on the deception. The "necessary documents" were probably legal papers of commitment. The full scope of Pendergast's plan to protect him lay suddenly revealed. He couldn't leave even if he wanted to. And everything he said-all his protestations and denials and talk of a killer-only confirmed what the director had learned from reading his case files: that he was delusional. He swallowed, tried to sound as reasonable and sane as possible.

"Dr. Tisander, let me explain. The man who brought me up here, Special Agent Pendergast? He gave me a false identity, put me here in order to protect me from a killer. All those papers you have are forged. It's all a ruse. If you don't believe me, call the New York Times.

Ask them to fax up a picture of me, a description. You'll see that I'm William Smithback. Edward Jones doesn't exist."

He stopped, realizing how crazy it must all sound. Dr. Tisander was still listening to him, smiling, giving him his full attention-but now Smithback recognized the nuances of that expression. It was pity, mixed perhaps with a faint expression of that relief with which the sane view the insane. That same expression had no doubt been on his own face at di

"Look," he began again. "Surely, you've heard of me, read my books. I've written three best-selling novels: Relic, Reliquary, and Thunderhead. If you have them in your library, you can see for yourself. My picture's on the back of all three."

"So now you're a best-selling author as well?" Dr. Tisander allowed his smile to widen slightly. "We don't stock our library with best sellers. They pander to the lowest common denominator of reader and-worse-tend to overexcite our guests."

Smithback swallowed, tried to make himself sound the soul of sanity and reason. "Dr. Tisander, I understand that I must sound crazy to you. If you would please allow me to make one call with that phone on your desk-just one-I'll show you otherwise. I'll talk to my wife or my editor at the Times. Either one will immediately confirm I'm Bill Smithback. Just one call-that's all I ask."

"Thank you, Edward," said Tisander, rising. "I can see you'll have a lot to discuss with your therapist at your next session. I have to get back to work."