Dance Of Death

"And no doubt you, too."

D'Agosta said nothing.

"They've searched my apartment, they've probably searched the Riverside Drive house. As for this little warren… well, you saw yourself that I have a private exit from the Dakota. Even the doormen here don't know about it. Only Martyn, who you just met."

He paused in his typing. "Vincent, there is something you must do."

"What's that?"

"You'll go straight to Laura Hayward, say that you'll cooperate in every way, but that I seem to have disappeared and that you've no idea where I am. There's no need for you to damage your career any further over this."

"I already told you, I'm with you all the way."

"Vincent, I am demanding that you leave."

"Hey, Aloysius?"

Pendergast looked at him.

"Up yours."

He saw Pendergast's eyes were upon him. "I won't forget this,

Vincent."

"Never mind."

The agent went back to his work. Ten minutes passed, twenty- and then Pendergast suddenly stiffened.

"A hit?"

"I believe so," Pendergast said. He was staring intently at one of the computers, playing a grainy image over and over, forward and backward.

D'Agosta looked over his shoulder. "Is that him?"

"The computer believes so. And I do, as well. It's odd, though- the image isn't taken from outside the Dakota, as I'd expected. It's about six blocks north, outside of-"

At that moment, a low chime sounded from a box on the table. Pendergast turned toward it quickly.

"What's that?" D'Agosta asked.

"It's Martyn. It seems there's somebody to see me."

D'Agosta tensed. "Police?"

Pendergast shook his head. He leaned toward the box, depressed a switch.

"A bicycle messenger, sir," came the voice. "He has an envelope for you."

"You've asked him to wait?"

"Yes."

"And the police are unaware of his presence?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring him up. Take the usual precautions." Pendergast took his finger from the switch and straightened. "Let's see what this is about." His tone was casual, but his face looked drawn.

They walked down the short hallway to the elevator. A minute passed without a word being exchanged. Then, from below, the elevator gave a clank and began to rise. Shortly, the brass grille was drawn back and two figures emerged: the doorman D'Agosta had met earlier and the bicycle messenger, a slim Hispanic youth wearing a scarf and a heavy jacket. He held an oversize envelope in one hand.

Looking at the package, Pendergast's pale face went gray. Wordlessly, he reached into a pocket of his black jacket, withdrew a pair of medical gloves, and drew them on. Then he took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to the messenger.

"Would you mind waiting here a few moments, please?" he asked.

"I guess," the messenger said, looking suspiciously at the gloves.

Pendergast took the envelope, exchanged a private look with the doorman. Then, nodding to D'Agosta, he strode quickly back into the room.

"Is it from Diogenes?" D'Agosta asked, closing the door behind them.

Pendergast didn't respond. Instead, he spread a sheet of white paper on the desk, laid the envelope on top of it, and examined it carefully. It was unsealed, the rear flap loosely fastened by twisted red thread. Pendergast gave the thread a brief, close scrutiny. Then he unwound it and carefully upended the envelope.

A small sheet of folded paper fell out, followed by a lock of glossy dark hair.

Pendergast drew in his breath sharply. In the room, it sounded explosively loud. Quickly, he knelt and opened the folded sheet.

The paper was a beautiful, hand-pressed linen, with an embossed coat of arms at its top: a lidless eye over two moons, with a lion couchant. Beneath, written in tobacco-colored ink with a fountain pen or quill, was a date: January 28.

D'Agosta realized it was identical to the note Pendergast had received a few months earlier, at the mansion on Riverside Drive. Unlike that note, however, this one had more written upon it than just a date. His eye fell to the words below:

She's very spirited, brother. I can see why you like her.

Savor this token as earnest of my claim: a lock of her lovely hair. Savor it also as a memento of her passing. If you caress it you can almost smell the sweet air of Capraia.

Of course, I could be lying about everything. This lock could belong to someone else. Search your heart for the truth.

Frater, ave atque vale.

"Oh, my…" D'Agosta said. The words were cut off as his throat closed up involuntarily. He glanced over at the agent. He was sitting on the floor, gently stroking the lock of hair. The look on his face was so terrible D'Agosta had to turn away.

"It could be a lie," he said. "Your brother's lied before."

Pendergast did not answer. There was a brief and awful silence.

"I'll go question the messenger," D'Agosta said, not daring to look back.

Exiting the room, he walked down the corridor to the elevator. The messenger was there, waiting, watched over by Martyn.

"NYPD," he said, briefly showing his badge. Everything had slowed down, as in a nightmare. He felt curiously heavy, as if he could barely move his limbs. He wondered if this was what it was like to be in shock.

The youth nodded.

"Who gave you the package to deliver?"

"Somebody in a cab dropped it off at our service."

"What did the passenger look like?"

"It was just the cabbie. There was no passenger."

"What kind of vehicle, exactly?"

"Typical yellow cab. From the city."

"Did you get a name or medallion number?" Even as he asked the question, D'Agosta knew it wouldn't matter whether the kid had gotten one or not; no doubt Diogenes had covered his trail.

The messenger shook his head.

"How were you paid?"

"The driver paid fifty bucks. Said his instructions were to get a messenger to deliver the package to a Dr. Pendergast, 1 West 72nd Street. In person, if possible. And not to talk to anybody but Dr. Pendergast or the doorman."

"Very well." D'Agosta got the youth's name and employer. Then he took Martyn aside, asking him to make sure the cops didn't stop the messenger as he left the building. The strange feeling of heaviness had not left him. He walked back down the corridor to the small room.

Pendergast did not look up at his entrance. He was still sitting on the floor, hunched forward, the lock of hair placed before him. One hand rested on each knee, palm inward, each thumb forming a small circle with the middle finger. The bereft, grief-stricken expression on his face had disappeared, and in its place was utter impassivity. He did not move, did not blink, didn't even seem to breathe. He looked to D'Agosta as if he were a million miles away.

Maybe he is, D'Agosta thought. Maybe he's meditating or something. Or maybe he's just trying to keep himself sane.

"The messenger knew nothing," he said as gently as he could. "The trail's too well covered."

Pendergast did not acknowledge this. He remained motionless. His face had lost none of its pallor.

"How the hell did Diogenes find out about Viola?" D'Agosta burst out.

Pendergast spoke almost robotically. "For the first week, while in Diogenes's care, I was raving. Delirious. It's possible I mentioned her name. Nothing escapes Diogenes-nothing."

D'Agosta sank into a nearby chair. Right now, he didn't think he cared if Laura Hayward, a dozen FBI agents, and an army corps came storming into the apartment. They could lock him up and throw away the key. It wouldn't make any difference. Life was shit.

The two sat in the room, motionless, silent, as half an hour ticked by.

Then, without warning, Pendergast leaped to his feet, so suddenly that D'Agosta's heart turned over in his chest.

"She would have traveled under her own name!" he said, eyes glittering intently.