Dance Of Death

Was it possible that D'Agosta was in on it, too? That the entire story of Pendergast's death had been a sham, part of some complex plot to lure her here? Was this some kind of sophisticated kidnapping network? Or were they holding her for ransom? The more she thought about this complete and utter dog's breakfast, the more she felt fear giving way to anger and outrage. But even that emotion she repressed. Better to direct her energies toward escape.

She went back into the bathroom and made a quick inventory: plastic comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, water glass, clean towels, washcloth, shampoo. She reached down and picked up the glass. It was heavy and cold, real glass.

She turned it over thoughtfully in her hands. A sharp piece would make a weapon, but it could also double as a tool. Escape through the windows was out of the question, and no doubt the door would be reinforced and secure. But this was an old house, and the walls would probably be plaster and lath beneath the wallpaper.

She took a towel, wrapped it tightly around the glass, and gave it several sharp taps on the edge of the sink until it broke. She unwrapped the towel: as she'd hoped, the glass had broken into several large pieces. She took the sharpest, walked back into the bedroom, and approached the opposite wall. Careful to minimize noise, she stuck the pointed edge into the wallpaper and gave an exploratory thrust.

It immediately slipped, taking with it a piece of the wallpaper. She saw, to her dismay, the glint of metal underneath. With her fingernails, she caught the cut edge of wallpaper and peeled it back, revealing a smooth, cold expanse of steel.

A chill went up her spine. And in that moment, a knock came at the door.

She started, then quickly climbed back into the bed, pretending to be asleep.

The knock came again, and a third time, and then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock. The door creaked open. She lay there, eyes closed, shard of glass concealed beside her body.

"Dear Viola. I know you have been up and about."

Still she lay there.

"I see you have already discovered I've decorated your room in metal. Now, please sit up and stop this tiresome charade. I have something important to tell you."

Viola sat up, anger returning. A man stood in the doorway whom she did not recognize, although the voice was unmistakably that of Diogenes.

"Forgive my unusual appearance; I am dressed for the city. To which I am headed in a few minutes."

"In disguise, it seems. You fancy yourself a right Sherlock Holmes."

The man bowed his head.

"What do you want, Diogenes?"

"I have what I want-you."

"Whatever for?"

The strange man gave a broad smile. "What do I want with you? Frankly, I could care less about you, except for one thing: you aroused the interest of my brother. I heard your name pass his lips just once, no more. It piqued my curiosity. Luckily, your name is unique, your family is prominent, and I was able to find out a great deal-a great deal-about you. I suspected tender feelings on your part for my brother. When you responded to my letter, I knew my hunch was right, and that I had landed a prize beyond compare."

"You're an ass. You don't know anything about me."

"My dear Viola, rather than worrying about what I know, you should be worrying about two things you don't know-and should. First, you need to know that you ca

"My, you've gone to a lot of trouble and expense. Boiled sweets, even."

"Indeed."

"Indeed." She mocked his courtly drawl. "You said you had two things to tell me. What's the second?"

"That you must die. If you believe in a supreme being, be sure to resolve any unfinished business you have with Him. Your death will take place tomorrow morning, at the traditional time: dawn."

Almost without intent, Viola laughed: an angry, bitter laugh. "If you could only hear what a pompous ass you sound! You will die at dawn. How histrionic."

Diogenes took a step back, a frown passing fleetingly over his face before neutrality returned. "What a sprightly vixen you are."

"What have I done to you, you bloody nutter?"

"Nothing. It is what you did to my brother."

"I did nothing to your brother! Is this some kind of sick joke?"

A dry chuckle. "It is indeed a sick joke, a very sick joke."

Anger and frustration burned away her fear. Viola slowly tightened her grip on the shard of glass. "For such a revolting man, you seem insufferably pleased with yourself."

The dry chuckle died off. "My, my. We certainly have a sharp tongue this morning."

"You're crazy."

"I have no doubt that, by the standards of society, I am clinically insane."

Viola's eyes narrowed. "So you're a follower of the Scottish psychiatrist R. D. Laing."

"I follow nobody."

"So you believe, in your ignorance. Laing said, 'Mental illness is the sane response to an insane world.'"

"I commend the gentleman-whoever he is-for his insight. But my dear Viola, I don't have all day to exchange pleasantries-"

"My dear Diogenes-if only you knew just how boorish you sound." She put on a deadly accurate imitation of his languid accent. "How dreadfully sorry I am that we can't continue this charming conversation. You and your feeble attempts at breeding."

There was a silence. Diogenes had lost his smile, but if other thoughts were going through his head, they did not express themselves on his face. Viola was amazed at the depth and clarity of her own anger. She was breathing fast, and her heart was going like mad in her chest.

Diogenes finally sighed. "You are as chattery as a monkey and almost as smart. If I were you, I'd be a little less garrulous and face your end with dignity, as befits your station."

"My station? Oh my God, don't tell me you're another of those American poons who get their willy up meeting some red-nosed baronet or doddering old viscount. I should have known."

"Viola, please. You're getting overexcited."

"Wouldn't you be a little overexcited if you had been lured overseas, drugged and kidnapped, locked in a room, and threatened-"

"Viola, ça suffit! I will be back in the wee hours of the morning to carry out my promise. Specifically, I will cut your throat. Twice. In honor of our Uncle Comstock."

She suddenly stopped. The fear had come back in full force. "Why?"

"Finally, a sensible question. I am an existentialist. I carve my own meaning out of the suppurating carcass of this rotting universe. Through no fault of your own, you have become part of that meaning. But I do not feel sorry for you. The world is abrim with pain and suffering. I simply choose to direct the festivities instead of offering myself up as another witless victim. I take no pleasure in the suffering of others-except one. That is my meaning. I live for my brother, Viola; he gives me strength, he gives me purpose, he gives me life. He is my salvation."