Dance Of Death

A particularly strong gust of wind rattled through the cemetery, temporarily overwhelming the minister's voice. Then it returned: "Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend thy servant Margo, our dear sister, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Savior, beseeching thee that she may be precious in thy sight…"

Nora bent against the bitter wind and drew her coat tighter as she listened to the sad, soothing words. She wished with all her heart that Bill was there with her. The bizarre telephone call from Pendergast-and it was Pendergast, she had no doubt-had left her shaken. Bill's life threatened, and he in hiding? And now her own life in danger? It all seemed incredible, frightening, as if a dark cloud had descended on her world. And yet the evidence was directly in front of her. Margo was dead.

A humming noise broke her black reverie. The machine was lowering Margo's coffin into the grave with a grinding of gears and the whirring of a motor. The minister's voice raised slightly as the coffin descended. Making the sign of the cross with an upraised hand, he read the last words of the service. With a faint thump, the coffin came to rest, and then the minister invited Margo's mother to throw in a clod of dirt. She did so, and some others followed, the frozen clods making a disturbingly hollow sound as they struck the coffin lid.

Nora felt as if her heart would break. Her friendship with Margo, which had gotten off to such a bad start, had just begun to blossom. Her death was a tragedy in the truest sense of the word-she was so brave, so full of conviction.

The service over, the crowd began to drift back toward the narrow cemetery lane where their cars waited, frosty breath rising in the air. Nora checked her watch: ten o'clock. She had to get back to the museum immediately, to work on the final preparations for the opening.

As she turned to leave, she saw a man dressed in black approach obliquely; a few more moments and he had fallen into step beside her. He looked haggard with grief, and she wondered if Margo didn't have other close relatives, after all.

"Nora?" came the low voice.

Nora was startled. She paused.

"Keep walking, please."

She kept walking, feeling mounting alarm. "Who are you?"

"Agent Pendergast. Why are you out in the open after my warning?"

"I have to live my life."

"You can't live a life if you've lost it."

Nora sighed. "I want to know what's happened to Bill."

"Bill is safe, as I explained. It is you I'm worried about. You're a prime target."

"Target of what?"

"I can't tell you that. What I can tell you is that you must take steps to protect yourself. You should be afraid."

"Agent Pendergast, I am afraid. Your call scared me half to death. But you can't expect me to drop everything. As I told you, I've got an opening I've got to prepare for tonight."

A sharp, exasperated exhalation. "He's killing everyone around me. He will kill you, too. And then you'll miss not only your opening but the rest of your life."

The voice, far from the honeyed drawl she remembered, was tense and urgent.

"I have to take the risk. I'll be in the museum the rest of the day, under high security in the exhibit. And then I'll be at the opening tonight, surrounded by thousands."

"High security did not stop him before."

"Who is this him?"

"As I've said, to tell you more would only put you at greater risk. Oh, Nora, what must I do to protect you?"

She faltered, shocked at the near despair in his voice. "I'm sorry. Look, it's just not in my nature to run and hide. I've worked too long for this opening. People are counting on me. Okay? Tomorrow- let's take this up again tomorrow. Just not today."

"So be it." The anonymous figure turned away-strange how little he looked like the Pendergast Nora remembered-melted into the dark dusters of people walking toward their cars, and was gone.

FORTY-FIVE

D'Agosta paused at the door of Hayward's office, feeling almost afraid to knock. The painful memory of their first encounter in her office came into his mind unbidden, and he forced it away with great effort, rapping more loudly than he intended.

"Come in." The very sound of her voice caused his heart to pause. He grasped the handle, pushed open the door.

The office looked very different. Gone were the various piles of paper, the pleasant, controlled untidiness. Now it was severe in its organization-and it was clear Hayward was working, living, and breathing a single case.

And there she was, standing behind her desk, her short, slim figure in a neat gray suit with captain's bars on the shoulder, looking directly at him. The look was so intense D'Agosta found himself almost pushed back by it.

"Have a seat." The voice was coldly neutral.

"Listen, Laura, before we begin, I just want to say-"

"Lieutenant," came the crisp response. "You've been summoned here on police business, and anything you might have to say of a personal nature is inappropriate."

D'Agosta looked at her. This was unfair. "Laura, please…"

Her face softened, but only for a moment, and she spoke in a low vice. "Vincent, don't do this to me or to yourself. Especially not now. I have something very, very difficult to show you."

This stopped D'Agosta.

"Please take a seat."

"I'll stand."

Brief silence while she stared at him. Then she spoke again. "Pendergast is alive."

D'Agosta felt himself go cold. He hadn't known why she'd summoned him, hadn't even dared to guess-but this was the last thing he'd expected. "How did you find out?" he blurted.

Her face tightened with anger. "So you did know."

Another tense silence. Then she reached down and picked up a piece of paper, drew it in front of her. D'Agosta could see it was a list of handwritten notes. What was this about? He had never seen Laura so wound up.

"On January 19, Professor Torrance Hamilton was poisoned in front of a lecture hall of two hundred students in his class at Louisiana State University and died about an hour later. The only useful evidence uncovered from the crime scene, some black fibers found in his office, is analyzed in this report." She dropped a slim folder on her desk.

D'Agosta glanced at it but did not pick it up.

"The report states that the fibers were from a very costly cashmere-merino blended-wool fabric made for only a few years in the 1950s in a factory outside Prato, Italy. The only place it was sold in America- the only place-was a small shop on Rue Lespinard in New Orleans. A shop patronized by the Pendergast family."

D'Agosta felt a sudden hope. Was it possible, after all, that she believed him? That she'd checked into Diogenes? "Laura, I-"

"Lieutenant, let me finish. My forensic team searched Pendergast's apartment in the Dakota-at least the rooms we could get into- and took fiber samples. In addition, we found two dozen identical black suits in a closet. The suits and the fibers all came from the same source: those bolts of cashmere-merino wool, dyed black. This is a virtually unique fiber. There can be no mistake."

D'Agosta felt a very strange sensation crawl up his spine. He suddenly had a premonition of where this might be going.

"On January 22, Charles Duchamp was hung from his apartment building on 65th and Broadway. Again, the crime scene was unusually clean. However, our forensic team did recover a few more of the same black fibers that were found at the Torrance homicide. In addition, the rope used to hang Duchamp was woven of a rare type of gray silk. We ultimately learned it is a special type of rope used in Buddhist religious ceremonies in Bhutan. The monks tie these silk ropes into incredibly complex knots for meditative and contemplative purposes. These are unique knots, found nowhere else in the world."