Dance Of Death

"Don't mind if I do."

Margo placed another piece of salmon on her plate, took a little more for herself. "I don't suppose you've heard about the Tano crosscountry march," she said, eyes on her plate.

Nora looked up sharply. "No. Nothing."

"The museum is trying to keep it under wraps, hoping it won't come off. But I think that since you're one of the curators of the show, you should know about it. The Tanos have begun a sort of protest caravan from New Mexico to New York to ask for the return of those masks. They plan to set up in front of the museum the night of the opening, perform dances, sing songs, and hand out leaflets."

"Oh, no," Nora groaned.

"I managed to speak to the leader of the group, a religious elder. He was a very nice man, but he was also extremely firm about what they were doing and why. They believe there's a spirit inside each mask, and the Tanos want to placate them-to let them know they haven't been forgotten."

"But on opening night? It'll be a disaster."

"They're sincere," Margo said gently.

Nora glanced at her, a retort already on her lips. Then she softened. "I suppose you're right."

"I really did try to talk them out of it. Anyway, I only mention this because I figured you might appreciate a heads-up."

"Thanks." Nora thought for a moment. "Ashton's going to have a shit-fit."

"How can you stand working with that man? What a dork."

Nora burst out laughing, amazed at Margo's directness. It was, of course, true. "You should see him these days, ru

"Stop! I don't want to picture it."

"And then Menzies comes through, and with a quiet word here and a nod there, he gets more accomplished in five minutes than Ash-ton does in a whole morning."

"Now, there's a lesson in management." Margo pointed at Nora's glass. "Another?"

"Please."

She filled up both their glasses, then raised hers. "Too bad Menzies's soft-spoken approach doesn't yet work for us women. So here's to you and me, Nora, kicking ass in that fossilized pile."

Nora laughed. "I'll drink to that."

And they clinked glasses.

THIRTY

IT was exactly two in the morning when Smithback cracked open the door of his room. Holding his breath, he glanced out through the narrow gap. The third-floor corridor was deserted and dark. Easing the door open still farther, he ventured a look in the other direction.

Deserted, as well.

Smithback closed the door again, leaned against it. His heart pounded in his chest, and he told himself it was because he'd been waiting so long for this moment. He had lain in bed for hours, feigning sleep, all the while putting the finishing touches on his plan. Earlier in the evening, there had been the occasional hushed footfall outside; around eleven, a nurse had looked in on him and-seeing him motionless in bed-left him to sleep. Since midnight, there had been no sound at all outside the door.

Smithback grasped the door handle again. It was time to put his plan into action.

After his outburst with the director, Smithback had been summoned to di

It was while on duty Smithback had managed to purloin a key to the basement.

Though he'd worked only two shifts, Smithback already had a pretty good sense of how the kitchen operated. Deliveries came in through a loading dock in the back of the mansion, and were then brought through the basement and up into the kitchen. Security at River Oaks was a joke: half the kitchen staff seemed to have keys to the basement, from the head chef on down to the dishwashers, and the door was always being unlocked, opened, and relocked during working hours. When the sous chef had gone down to get a piece of equipment, Smithback seized his chance and-when nobody was looking-pocketed the key that had been left in the lock. The chef had come back up, grunting under the weight of a vertical broiler, the key completely forgotten.

It had been that easy.

Now Smithback tensed, preparing to open his door again. He was wearing three shirts, a sweater, and two pairs of pants, and was sweating profusely. It was a necessary precaution: if everything went according to plan, he had a long, cold ride ahead of him.

While on duty in the kitchen, he'd learned that the first food service truck arrived at the loading dock at 5:30 a.m. If he could make his way through the basement, wait until the truck arrived, and then sneak into its rear compartment just before it departed, nobody would be the wiser. Two hours or more would pass until his absence was discovered-and by then he'd be well on his way back to New York, beyond the grasp of Dr. Tisander and his legion of creepy, black-uniformed nurses.

He cracked the door open again. Deathly silence. He opened it wider, then slipped out into the corridor and closed it noiselessly behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, then began making his way cautiously down the corridor toward the landing, keeping close to the walls. He stood little chance of being spotted: the chandeliers were dimmed and their amber pools of light faint. The landscapes and portraits hanging on the walls were dark, indistinguishable rectangles. The soft carpeting was a river of maroon so deep it looked almost black.

It was the work of five minutes to reach the landing. Here the light was a little brighter and he hung back, listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairway. He took a step, then another, listening intently.

Nothing.

Gliding forward, hand on the banister, Smithback made his way down, ready to dart back up the stairs at the first sign of an encounter. Reaching the second-floor landing, he retreated to a dark corner, crouching behind a sideboard. Here he paused to reco

From down the administrative hallway came the sound of a closing door.

Quickly, he darted back to his hiding place, crouched down, and waited.

He heard a key turning in a lock. Then, for perhaps a minute, nothing more. Had somebody been locking himself inside an office? Or out?

He waited another minute. Still nothing.

Just as he was gathering himself to rise again, someone came into view from the darkness of the administrative corridor: an orderly, walking slowly, hands clasped behind him. The man was looking from left to right as he strolled, as if checking that all doors were properly closed.

Smithback shrank back farther into the darkness behind the sideboard, not moving, not even breathing, as the man walked across the far side of the landing and vanished down the corridor leading to the library.

Smithback waited, motionless, another five minutes. Then, keeping low, he made his way down the staircase to the first floor.

Here it seemed even gloomier. After making sure nobody was in sight, Smithback darted down the wide corridor that led to the kitchen.

It was the work of thirty seconds to reach the heavy double doors. Taking one last look over his shoulder, he pushed against the door, preparing to back into the kitchen.