Dance Of Death

She paused, laid down a photograph of the rope that hung Duchamp, showing the knot, smeared with blood. "That particular knot is known as Ran t'ankha durdag, 'the tangled path to hell.' It has come to my attention that Special Agent Pendergast spent time in Bhutan studying with the very monks who make these knots."

"There's a simple answer-"

"Vincent, if you interrupt me one more time, I'll have you muzzled."

D'Agosta fell silent.

"The next day, on January 23, FBI Special Agent Michael Decker was murdered in his house in Washington, D.C., stabbed through the mouth with an antique Civil War bayonet. This crime scene was equally clean. The forensic team recovered fibers from the same bolt of cashmere-merino wool found at the Hamilton poisoning." She laid another report before D'Agosta.

"At around two o'clock in the morning of January 26, Margo Green was fatally stabbed in the New York Museum of Natural History. I've gone over the museum's perso

She picked up a piece of paper and, with a snap, dropped it, too, in front of D'Agosta. "Those are the results."

D'Agosta couldn't bring himself to look. He knew the answer already.

"That's right. Special Agent Pendergast."

D'Agosta knew better than to say anything.

"Which brings me to motive. All these people had something in common-they were close acquaintances of Pendergast. Hamilton was Pendergast's language tutor in high school. Duchamp was Pendergast's closest-and perhaps only-childhood friend. Michael Decker was Pendergast's mentor at the FBI. He's one of the main reasons Pendergast has even survived in the FBI, after all the trouble his unorthodox methods got him into. And finally-as you well know-Margo Green was a close friend of Pendergast's from two cases dating back several years, the museum murders and the subway killings.

"All this evidence, all these tests, have been checked and rechecked. There can be no mistake. Special Agent Pendergast is a psychopathic killer."

D'Agosta had gone cold. He realized now why Diogenes had saved Pendergast the way he did, why he'd helped nurse him back to life after what had happened in the Castel Fosco. It wasn't enough just to murder his brother's friends. No-he would also frame him for the crimes.

"And now this," Hayward said. She showed him another report. It was bound in plastic, and the title was visible:

Psychological Profile

Hamilton/Duchamp/Decker/Green Killer

Behavioral Science Unit

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Quantico

"I didn't tell them that I suspected one of their own. I just told them we thought the crimes might be co

She looked D'Agosta in the eye. "This remind you of anyone, Vincent?"

D'Agosta didn't reply.

"Those are the outward details. Now comes the psych analysis." She paused, finding the place in the report. "The killer is a self-controlled and controlling person. He's extremely well organized, neat, and places a high premium on logic. He represses any outward show of emotion and rarely, if ever, confides in anyone. He has few, if any, real friends and has difficulty forming relationships with the opposite sex. This individual probably suffered a difficult childhood, with a cold, controlling mother and a distant or absent father. His family relationships were not close. There will probably be a history of mental illness or crime in the family. As a young boy, he suffered a crippling emotional trauma involving a close family member- mother, father, or sibling-that he has spent the rest of his life compensating for. He is deeply suspicious of authority, considers himself intellectually and morally superior to others-"

"What a load of psychobabble!" D'Agosta exploded. "It's all twisted up. This isn't the way he is at all!"

He stopped abruptly. Hayward was looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"So you do recognize this person."

"Of course I recognize him! But this is a twisting of who he really is. Pendergast didn't murder those people. He was framed. The evidence, the blood, was planted. His brother, Diogenes, is the killer."

Another long silence. "Go on," she said, her tone neutral.

"After Pendergast's ordeal in Italy, when we all thought he was dead, Diogenes took him to a clinic to recover. He was sick, drugged. It must have allowed Diogenes plenty of opportunity to harvest all the forensic evidence he needed to frame Pendergast-hair, fibers, blood. It's Diogenes. Don't you see? He's hated Pendergast all his life, he's been pla

"You're not going to lay this crazy theory on me again, Vincent-"

"It's my turn to talk. Diogenes wanted to commit a crime even more horrible than killing his brother. He wanted to kill everyone his brother loves but leave his brother alive. Now it seems he's also framing his brother for those same crimes-"

D'Agosta stopped. She was looking at him with an expression of pity bordering almost on pain.

"Vi

"What is it?"

"A death certificate. Of Diogenes Dagrepont Bernoulli Pendergast. He was killed twenty years ago in a car accident in the U.K."

"A forgery. I saw a letter from him. I know he's alive."

"What makes you think Pendergast didn't write the letter?"

D'Agosta stared at her. "Because I saw Diogenes. With my own eyes."

"Is that so? Where?"

"Outside Fosco's castle. When we were being chased. He had eyes of two different colors, just like Cornelia Pendergast told us."

"And how do you know it was Diogenes?"

D'Agosta hesitated. "Pendergast told me."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No. But I saw a picture of him as a child, just recently. It was the same face."

A long silence followed. Hayward reached down and picked up the forensic profile again. "There's something else in here. Read it." She pushed a piece of paper over to him.