Dance Of Death

Gli

Gli

"All right. Aloysius, you are still in the summerhouse with Diogenes. Imagine you have a loaded pistol in your hand."

"Fine."

Gli

"What kind of pistol is it?"

"It's a gun from my collection, a Signature Grade 1911.45 ACP by Hilton Yam."

"Give it to him."

"It would be most unwise to give a pistol to a ten-year-old, don't you think?" Again, that ironic, amused tone.

"Nevertheless, do it."

"Done."

"Tell him to point the gun at you and pull the trigger."

"Done."

"What happened?"

"He's laughing uproariously. He didn't pull the trigger."

"Why not?"

"He says it's too soon."

"Does he intend to kill you?"

"Naturally. But he wants…" His voice trailed off.

Krasner pounced. "What does he want?"

"To play with me for a while."

"What kind of play?"

"He says he wants to pull off my wings and watch what happens. I am his ultimate insect."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Ask him."

"He's laughing."

"Grab him and demand an answer."

"I would prefer not to touch him."

"Grab him. Get physical. Force him to answer."

"He's still laughing."

"Hit him."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Hit him."

"I won't carry on with this charade."

"Take the gun away from him."

"He's dropped the gun, but-"

"Pick it up."

"All right."

"Shoot him. Kill him."

"This is utterly absurd-"

"Kill him. Do it. You've killed before; you know how to do it. You can and you must do it."

A long silence.

"Did you do it?"

"This is an asinine exercise, Dr. Krasner."

"But you did imagine it. Didn't you? You imagined killing him."

"I imagined no such thing."

"Yes, you did. You killed him. You imagined it. And now you are imagining his dead body on the ground. You see it because you ca

"This is…" Pendergast's voice trailed of.

"You see it, you can't help but see it. Because I am telling you to, you are seeing it… But wait-he's not yet dead… He moves, he still lives… He wants to say something. With his last dying strength, he beckons you closer, says something to you. What did he just say?"

A long silence. Then Pendergast answered dryly, "Qualis artifex pereo."

Gli

"What does that mean?"

"It's Latin."

"I repeat: what does it mean?"

"It means 'O, what an artist dies with me!'"

"Why did he say that?"

"Those were Nero's last words. I believe Diogenes was speaking facetiously."

"You have killed your brother, Aloysius, and now look on his body."

An irritated sigh.

"This is the second time you have done it."

"The second time?"

"You killed him once before, years ago."

"Pardon me?"

"Yes, you did. You killed whatever goodness was in him; you left him a hollow shell filled with malice and hatred. You did something to him that murdered his very soul!"

Despite himself, Gli

"I did no such thing. He was born that way, empty and cruel."

"No. You. killed his goodness! There is no other possible answer.

Don't you see, Aloysius? The hatred Diogenes feels for you is mythological in its immensity. It ca

Another long silence. Pendergast lay on the couch, unmoving, his skin gray, waxlike.

"Now Diogenes is rising. He is looking at you again. I want you to ask him something."

"What?"

"Ask Diogenes what you did to him to make him hate you so."

"Done."

"His answer?"

"Another laugh. He said, 'I hate you because you are you.'"

"Ask again."

"He says that is reason enough, that his hatred has nothing to do with anything I did, it simply exists, like the sun, moon, and stars."

"No, no, no. What is it that you did, Aloysius?" Krasner's voice was once again gentle, but it had great urgency. "Unburden yourself of it. How terrible it must be to carry that weight on your shoulders. Unburden yourself."

Slowly, Pendergast arose from the couch, swinging his legs over the side. For a moment, he sat motionless. Then he passed a hand across his forehead, looked at his watch. "It is midnight. It is now January 28, and I am out of time. I can't be bothered with this exercise anymore."

He stood and turned to Dr. Krasner. "I commend you on your valiant effort, Doctor. Trust me, there's nothing in my past that would justify Diogenes's conduct. In the course of my career studying the criminal mind, I have come to realize a simple truth: some people are born monsters. You can elucidate their motives and reconstruct their crimes-but you ca

Krasner looked at him, great sadness in his face. "There's where you're wrong, my friend. Nobody is born evil."

Pendergast held out his hand. "We shall differ, then." Then his eyes turned directly toward the hidden camera, startling Gli

"Mr. Gli

And he turned and walked briskly from the room.

FORTY-TWO

The mansion at 891 Riverside Drive lay above one of the most complex geological areas of Manhattan. Here, beneath the litter-strewn streets, the bedrock of Hartland schist yielded to a different formation, the Cambrian Manhattan. The gneiss of the Manhattan Formation was particularly faulted and contorted, and riddled with weak areas, cracks, and natural tu