Dance Of Death

The target subject may manifest symptoms of a rare form of multiple personality disorder, a variant of Munchausen syndrome by proxy, in which the subject acts out two separate, diametrically opposite roles: that of killer and of investigator. In this unusual condition, the killer may also be a law enforcement officer assigned to the case or an investigator co

"Bullshit. Munchausen by proxy is about somebody wanting attention. Pendergast goes out of his way to avoid the limelight. This doesn't describe Pendergast. You know the guy, you've worked with him. What does your gut tell you?"

"You don't want to know what my gut tells me." Her dark eyes were scrutinizing him. "Vi

"Why?"

"For one thing, because I think you're in terrible danger. Pendergast is a crazy son of a bitch and he's going to kill you next. I know he will."

"He won't kill me because he isn't the killer."

"The Pendergast you know isn't even aware he's the killer. He believes in this Diogenes. He genuinely thinks his brother is still alive and that you two are going to find him. It's all part of the pathology mentioned here." She slapped the report. "There's the other personality of his… Diogenes. Who exists within the same body. That personality you haven't met yet. But you will… when he kills you."

D'Agosta couldn't even find the words to respond.

"I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have told you all this." Her voice hardened. "You don't have a right to know any of this after how royally you've screwed up. I went out on a ten-mile limb for you, got you a great position on the force-and you betrayed my trust, you rejected my…" She paused, breathing hard, recovering her composure.

Now D'Agosta felt a flash of real anger. "I betrayed you? Listen, Laura: I tried to talk with you about this. I tried to explain. But you pushed me away, saying I was obsessing over someone's death. How do you think that felt? Or how do you think I feel now, listening to you say how naive I am, how gullible, trusting Pendergast like this? You've seen my casework in the past, you know what I'm capable of. Why do you think I'm so wrong now?"

The question hung in the air.

"This isn't the time or place for that discussion," Hayward replied after a moment. Her tone had grown quiet and businesslike. "And we're straying from the point."

"And what, exactly, is the point?"

"I want you to bring Pendergast in."

D'Agosta stood rooted in place, thunderstruck. He should have seen it coming.

"Bring him in. Save yourself. Save your career. If he's i

"But the evidence against him is overwhelming-"

"That's right. It's damning as hell. And you didn't even see the half of it. But that's the way our system works: bring him in and let him face a jury of his peers."

"Bring him in? How?"

"I've got it all worked out. You're the only man he trusts."

"You're asking me to betray him?"

"Betray? My God, Vi

For a long moment, D'Agosta said nothing. When he spoke, his voice sounded dead, wooden, even in his own ears. "Give me a day to think it over."

"A day?" She looked at him incredulously. "You've got ten minutes."

FORTY-SIX

Viola woke with a splitting headache. For a moment, she stared blankly, uncomprehendingly, at the frilled top of a canopied bed rising above her. And then it all came back: the drive along the dark highway, the increasingly bizarre comments by Pendergast's brother, the sudden attack…

She fought down a rising wave of panic, lying still, concentrating only on her breathing, trying not to think of anything at all.

Finally-when she felt she was master of herself-she sat up slowly. Her head reeled, and dark spots danced across her vision. She closed her eyes. When at last the throbbing had subsided a little, she opened her eyes once again and looked around the room.

It was a small bedroom with rose-patterned wallpaper, some old Victorian furniture, and a single barred window. Moving carefully- for the sake of both her headache and silence-she swung her legs over the bed and stood unsteadily on the floor. Quietly, she reached for the door handle and gave it a turn, but, as she expected, it was locked. A second twinge of panic was suppressed more quickly than the first.

She went to the window and looked out. The house was set a few hundred yards back from a marshy bay. Beyond a line of scraggly dunes, she could see a pounding line of surf and a dark ocean fleckedwith whitecaps. The sky was a metal gray and, with the instinct of somebody who had spent many nights under the open sky, she sensed it was morning. On both the right and the left, she could just make out a pair of ramshackle beach houses, their windows boarded up for the season. The beach was empty.

She reached through the bars and tapped on the glass. It seemed to be unusually blue and thick-perhaps unbreakable. And soundproofed, too-at least, she could not hear the surf.

Still moving slowly, and making every effort to be silent, she walked into a small adjoining bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was old-fashioned and neat, with a sink, a claw-footed tub, and another small window, also barred and paned in the same oddly thick glass. She turned on the tap and out came a gush of water, which quickly went from cold to piping hot. Shutting it off, she returned to the bedroom.

She sat back down on the bed, thinking. It was all so unreal, so utterly bizarre, it was impossible to comprehend. That the person who had picked her up was Pendergast's brother, she had absolutely no doubt-in many ways, he was practically a twin of the man. But why had he kidnapped her like this? What were his intentions? And, most important: what on earth was Pendergast's role in it? How could she have been so wrong about him?

But then, when she thought back to their brief meeting on the island of Capraia last fall, she realized how strange it all was. Perhaps word of his tragic death that made her romanticize their lone encounter and made it seem more than it really was. And then that letter, with its news that Pendergast was still alive, and its romantic, impulsive request…

Impulsive. That was the word. Once, again she had allowed her impulsiveness to get her into trouble-and this time it looked like deadly serious trouble.