Dance Of Death

In that moment, Hayward realized he knew about her and D'Agosta. She felt a sudden, consuming embarrassment. So it's not the big secret we thought it was. She wondered how soon Singleton would learn D'Agosta had moved out.

She licked her lips. "Sorry. I've no idea where Lieutenant D'Agosta might be."

He hesitated. "Pendergast never mentioned Decker to you?"

"Never. He was the kind of guy who really kept his cards close, never talked about anyone, least of all himself. Sorry I can't be of more help."

"Like I said, it was a long shot. Let the FBI take care of their own."

Now, at last, he looked directly at her. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee? We've got a few minutes before that meeting."

"No, thanks. I need to make a couple of quick phone calls first."

Singleton nodded, shook her hand, then turned away.

Hayward watched his receding form, thinking. Then, slowly, she turned the other way, preparing to head back to her office. As she did so, everything else suddenly fell away: the murmur of conversations, the people walking past; even the fresh and painful ache in her heart.

She had made the co

TWENTY-FOUR

William Smithback Jr. paced around his sumptuous third-floor room at River Oaks. He had to admit that Pendergast was right: the place was gorgeous. His room was luxuriously furnished, albeit in a style that went out with the Victorians: dark crushed-velvet wallpaper, oversize bed with canopy, hulking mahogany furniture. Paintings in gilt frames hung on all four walls: a still life of fruit in a bowl; sunset over the ocean; a pastoral countryside of cows and hayricks. They were real oils, too, not reproductions. While nothing had been actually screwed to the floors or walls, Smithback had noticed an absence of sharp implements, and he'd had the indignity of having his belt and tie taken away upon entrance. There was also a marked absence of telephones.

He strolled thoughtfully over to the large window and stared out. It was snowing, the fat flakes ticking against the glass. Outside, in the dying light, he could see a vast lawn deep in snow, bordered with hedges and gardens-all lumps and mounds of white-and dotted with icicled statuary. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, beyond which stood forest and a winding road that led down the mountain to the nearest town, six miles away. There were no bars on the window, but the small, thick leaded panes looked like they'd be very difficult to break.

Just for the hell of it, he tried to push the window open. Although there was no visible lock, it refused to budge. Smithback tried a little harder. Nothing. He turned away with a shrug.

River Oaks was a huge and rambling structure, perched atop one of the lower peaks of the Catskills: the country retreat of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt in the days before Newport, now converted to a mental hospital for the ultra-privileged. The orderlies and nurses wore discreet black uniforms instead of the usual white, and were ready to attend to every need of the "guests." Aside from light work duty and the daily hour of therapy, he had no set schedule. And the food was fantastic: Smithback, whose work duty was in the kitchen, had learned the head chef was a Cordon Bleu graduate.

But still, Smithback felt miserable. In the few hours he'd been here, he had tried to convince himself to take it easy, that this was for his own good, that he should wallow in luxury. It was a kind of lifestyle that, under other circumstances, he'd almost welcome. He'd told himself to treat it as drama, one he could maybe turn into a book someday. It seemed incredible someone was out to kill him.

But already this personal pep talk was growing stale. At the time of his admittance, he'd still been dazed from the high-speed chase, struck dumb by the sudde

He told himself that at least there was no need to worry about Nora. On the drive up the New York Thruway, he'd called her himself using Pendergast's phone, making up a story about how the Times was sending him on an undercover assignment to Atlantic City to cover a casino scandal, rendering him incommunicado for a while. He had Pendergast's assurance Nora would be safe, and he had never known Pendergast to be wrong. He felt guilty about lying to her, but, after all, he had done it for her sake, and he could explain it all later.

It was his job that preyed most on his mind. Sure, they'd accept he was sick, and no doubt Pendergast would make it convincing. But in the meantime, Harriman would have free reign. Smithback knew that, when he finally got back after his "convalescence," he'd be lucky to get assigned even the Dangler story.

The worst of it was, he didn't even know how long he'd have to stay here.

He turned, pacing again, half mad with worry.

There came a soft knock at the door.

"What is it?" Smithback said irritably.

An elderly nurse stuck her gaunt head inside the room, raven hair pulled back in a severe bun. "Di

"I'll be right down, thanks."

Edward Jones, troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, and a bit of isolation from the hectic world. It seemed very strange indeed to be playing Edward Jones, to be living in a place where everybody thought you were somebody else. Especially somebody not quite right in the head. Only Pendergast's acquaintance, the director of River Oaks-a Dr. Tisander-knew the truth. And Smithback had seen him only in passing while Pendergast was dealing with the admittance paperwork; they hadn't yet had a chance to speak privately.

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."