Dance Of Death

Viola laughed. "What a fu

"Hilarious. Except it consisted of a deadly combination of cocaine, acetanilid, and some rather nasty alkaloid botanicals. It caused uncounted numbers of addictions and thousands of deaths, including that of his own wife."

The laughter died in Viola's throat. She felt a twinge of uneasiness. "I see."

"Of course, nobody knew back then of the dangers of drugs like cocaine. You can't fault Great-Great-Grandfather Hezekiah for that."

"No, of course not."

They fell silent. The light snow continued to fall, the flakes drifting out of the dark sky, a glitter flashing through the headlights-and then were gone.

"Do you think there's such a thing as a criminal gene?" asked Diogenes.

"No," said Viola. "I think that's rubbish."

"Sometimes I wonder. There have been so many in our own family. There was Uncle Antoine, for example, one of the truly great mass murderers of the nineteenth century. Killed and mutilated almost a hundred workhouse girls and boys."

"How awful," murmured Viola.

The feeling of uneasiness grew stronger.

Diogenes gave an easy laugh. "The English transported their criminals to the colonies-Georgia and then Australia. They figured it would purge the Anglo-Saxon race of the criminal classes, but the more criminals they transported, the higher the crime rate became."

"Crime obviously had a lot more to do with economic conditions than genetics," said Viola.

"You think so? True: I would not have wanted to be poor in nineteenth-century England. In my view, the real criminals back then were the titled classes. Less than one percent of the people owned more than ninety-five percent of the land. And with the enclosure laws, the English lords could evict their tenant farmers, who flocked to the cities and either starved or turned to crime."

"True," Viola murmured. It seemed Diogenes had forgotten that she came from those titled classes.

"But here in America, it was different. How would you explain the fact that criminals run in some families like blue eyes or blond hair? In every generation, the Pendergast family seems to have produced a killer. After Antoine, let's see… There was Comstock Pendergast, famed mesmerist, magician, and mentor of Harry Houdini. He killed his business partner and the man's poor family, and then committed suicide. Cut his own throat twice. Then…"

"Pardon?" Viola realized that she was unconsciously gripping the door handle.

"Oh, yes. Twice. The first time he didn't quite get it deep enough, you see. I guess he didn't relish the thought of bleeding slowly to death. Myself, I wouldn't mind dying a slow death by exsanguination-I hear it's rather like going to sleep. I would have plenty of time to admire the blood, which has such an exquisite color. Do you like the color of blood, Viola?"

"Excuse me?" Viola felt panic well up within her.

"Blood. The color of a fine ruby. Or vice versa. I personally find it to be the most compelling color there is. Some might call me eccentric, but there it is."

Viola tried to quell her feelings of fear and uncertainty. They were now far from the city, and the dark night rushed by, only a few lights on in the darkened neighborhoods they passed, barely visible from the highway.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To a little place called the Springs. A charming cottage on the shore. It's about two more hours."

"And Aloysius is there?"

"Of course. Dying to see you."

This whole trip was a colossal mistake, she could see that now. Another foolish, impulsive decision. She'd been caught up in the heady romance of it, in the relief of learning Pendergast was still alive. But the truth was, she hardly knew the man. And this brother of his…

Suddenly, the thought of spending two more hours in a car with him was unthinkable.

"Viola," came the soft voice, "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"You look worried."

She took a deep breath. "To tell you the truth, Diogenes, I'd prefer to stay in New York tonight. I'm more tired than I realized. I'll see Aloysius when he comes to town."

"Oh, no! He'll be crushed."

"I can't help that. If you would, please turn the car around? Really, I'm terribly sorry for the sudden change of mind, but this will be best. You've been very kind. Please take me back to New York."

"If that's what you want. I'll have to get off at the next exit to reverse direction."

She felt a wave of relief. "Thank you. I'm really awfully sorry for putting you to all this trouble."

The exit soon came: Hempstead. The car slowed, exited. It approached the stop sign at the top of the exit ramp and cruised to a stop. There were no cars in sight and Viola sat back, hand still unconsciously clutching the door handle, and waited for Diogenes to proceed.

But he didn't proceed. And then, suddenly, she smelled the queerest chemical odor.

She turned quickly. "What is-?"

A hand holding a bunched cloth clamped itself over her mouth while an arm lashed around her neck with lightning speed and wrenched her brutally down to the seat. She was pi

FORTY-FOUR

The wintry scene could not have been more bleak: a thin snow had fallen on the cemetery the night before, and now a bitter wind blew through the bare trees, rattling the branches and sending wisps of snow whipping across the frozen ground. The grave itself looked like a black wound in the earth, surrounded by bright green Astroturf laid on the snow, with a second Astroturf carpet laid over the pile of dirt. The coffin rested beside the hideous hole, strapped to a machine that would lower it into the grave. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers stood about, jittering in the wind, adding a surreal fecundity to the frozen scene.

Nora could not take her gaze from the coffin. Wherever she turned, she always seemed drawn back to it. It was a highly polished affair, with brass handles and trim. Nora couldn't accept that her friend, her new friend, lay inside. Dead. How terrible to think that, just a few days before, she and Margo had been enjoying di

That same night she had been murdered.

And then, yesterday, the very disturbing, very urgent call from Pendergast…

She shivered uncontrollably, took a few deep breaths. Her fingers were freezing even through her gloves, and her nose felt like it had lost all sensation. She was so cold that she thought the tears might freeze on her face.

The minister, dressed in a long black down coat, was reading Rite One of the Burial of the Dead from the Book of Common Prayer, his voice sonorous in the freezing air. A large crowd had turned out- amazingly large when you considered the weather. An enormous quantity of people had come from the museum. Margo had clearly made a large impression even during her short tenure there: but then, she had also been a graduate student there years before. Standing near the front was the museum's director, Collopy, with a stu