Dance Of Death

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-ski

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 pla

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 gu

"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!"

When there was no answer, Smithback reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to dial 911.

"Put that thing away, Mr. Smithback," came the voice from the front seat. "You're in good hands, I assure you."

Smithback froze in the act of dialing. He knew that voice: knew it well. But it certainly didn't belong to the Mediterranean-looking man in the front seat.

"Pendergast?" he said incredulously.

The man nodded. He was looking in the rearview mirror, sca

The fear abated-slowly, slowly-to be replaced by surprise. Pendergast, Smithback thought. Oh, God. Why do I get a sinking feeling every lime I run into him?

"So the rumors were wrong," he said.

"Of my death? Most certainly."

Smithback guessed they were going at least a hundred miles an hour. Cars were flashing past, vague shapes and blurs of color.

"You mind telling me what's going on? Or why you're in disguise? You look like a fugitive from a Turkish prison-if you don't mind my saying so," he added hastily.

Pendergast glanced again in the rearview mirror. "I'm taking you to a place of safety."

This didn't immediately register. "You're taking me where?"

"You're a marked man. There's a dangerous killer after you. The nature of the threat forces me to take unusual measures."

Smithback opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Alarm, incredulity, astonishment, mingled in equal measures within him. The 125th Street exit passed in a heartbeat.

Smithback found his voice. "A killer after me? What for?"

"The more you know, the more dangerous it will be for you."

"How do you know I'm in danger? I haven't pissed off anybody- not lately, anyway."

To the left, the North River Control Plant shot by. Glancing uneasily to his right, Smithback thought he caught the briefest glimpse of 891 Riverside Drive-ancient, shadow-haunted-rising above the greenery of Riverside Park.

The car was moving so fast now the tires barely seemed to touch the road. Smithback looked around for a seat belt, but the cab had none. Cars flashed past as if stationary. What the hell kind of an engine does this thing have? He swallowed. "I'm not going anywhere until I know what's going on. I'm a married man now."

"Nora will be fine. She'll be told you're on assignment for the Times and will be incommunicado for a while. I'll see to that myself."

"Yeah, and what about the Times? I'm in the middle of an important assignment."

"They will hear from a doctor of your sudden, serious illness."

"Oh, no. No way. The Times is a dog-eat-dog place. It doesn't matter if I'm sick or dying, I'll lose the assignment."

"There will be other assignments."

"Not like this one. Look, Mr. Pendergast, the answer is-shit!"

Smithback braced himself as the cab whipped around a cluster of cars, weaving across three lanes, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear-ending a lumbering truck and shooting back into the fast lane. Smithback gripped the seat, silenced by terror.

Pendergast glanced once again in the rearview mirror. Looking around, Smithback could see-four or five cars back-a black Mercedes, weaving in and out of the traffic, pacing them.

Smithback faced forward again, feeling a rush of panic. Ahead on the shoulder, an NYPD cruiser had pulled over a van and the officer was out writing a ticket. As they flew past, Smithback saw the cop whirl around in disbelief, then run back to his cruiser.

"For God's sake, slow down," he choked out, but if Pendergast heard him, he gave no response.

Smithback glanced back again. Despite the awful speed, the black Mercedes wasn't falling behind. If anything, it seemed to be gaining. It had heavily tinted windows, and he could not make out the driver.