Dance Of Death

"It's a family matter," D'Agosta replied after a brief pause. He hated himself for stammering under Singleton's gaze, and hated himself even more for lying. But just what the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry, Cap, but I'm taking unlimited time off to go chase a man who's officially dead, whose whereabouts are unknown, for a crime that hasn't yet been committed? There was no question in his mind, no question at all, this was something he had to do. It was so important to Pendergast that he'd left instructions from beyond the grave. That was more than enough. But that didn't make this any easier or feel any more right.

Singleton held him in a look that was both concerned and speculative.

"Vi

With a sinking sensation, D'Agosta realized it was going to be even harder than he anticipated. Even if he had to quit, he would- but that would be the end of his career. A cop could quit once, but not twice.

"It's my mother," he said. "She's got cancer. They think it's terminal."

Singleton stood quite still for a moment, taking this in. Then he rocked slightly on his heels. "I'm very, very sorry to hear that."

There was another silence. D'Agosta wished somebody would knock on the door, or the phone would ring, or a meteor would strike the precinct house-anything to deflect Singleton's attention.

"We just found out," he went on. "It was a shock, a real shock." He paused, sick at heart. He'd just blurted out the first excuse he could think of, but already it seemed an appalling choice. His own mother, cancer… shit, he'd have to go to confession after this, big-time. And call his mom in Vero Beach, send her two dozen roses.

Singleton was nodding slowly. "How much time do you need?"

"The doctors don't know. A week, maybe two."

Singleton nodded again, even more slowly. D'Agosta felt himself flushing all over. He wondered what the captain was thinking.

"She doesn't have much time left," he went on. "You know how it is. I haven't exactly been a model son. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this… Just like any son would," he concluded lamely. "You could rack it up against future vacation and sick leave."

Singleton listened closely, but this time he didn't nod. "Of course," he said.

He gazed at D'Agosta a long time. His look seemed to say: A lot of people have sick parents, personal tragedies. But they're professionals. What's so different about you? Breaking eye contact at last, he turned away, picking up the sheaf of papers that lay on his desk.

"I'll have Mercer and Sabriskie coordinate the stakeouts," he said crisply over his shoulder. "Take whatever time you need, Lieutenant."

SIX

A dense FOG lay over the stagnant marshlands of Little Governors Island. From out of the murk came the mournful blast of a tugboat drifting down the East River. Manhattan was less than a mile across the icy black waters, but no lights from the cityscape pierced the veil of mist.

D'Agosta sat in the front passenger seat, holding grimly to the door handle as Laura Hayward's unmarked pool car bounced and swayed over the rough one-lane road. The headlights stabbed into the gloom, twin shafts of yellow that caromed wildly up and down, briefly illuminating the rutted drive and the skeletal chestnut trees that lined it.

"I think you missed one pothole back there," he said.

"Never mind about that. Let me get this straight. You told Singleton your mom has cancer?"

D'Agosta sighed. "It was the first thing that came into my head."

"Jeez, Vi

"I didn't." D'Agosta winced, thinking back over what he'd said to his captain that morning. You know how it is. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this. Just like any son would. Nice going, Vi

"And I still can't believe you're taking a leave of absence to hunt for this brother of Pendergast's, based on a letter and a hunch. Don't get me wrong: nobody respected Pendergast more than me, he was the most brilliant law enforcement officer I ever met. But he had a fatal weakness, Vi

"I'm not picking up that attitude."

"This search for Pendergast's brother is so far beyond the rule book it isn't even fu

D'Agosta didn't answer. He hadn't gotten that far yet.

The car shuddered as the front left tire sank into a rut. "Are you sure this is the right way?" she asked. "I can't believe there's a hospital out here."

"It's the right way."

Ahead, vague shapes were gradually becoming visible through the fog. As the car approached, the shapes resolved themselves into the pointed bars of a wrought-iron gate, set in a ten-foot-high wall of moss-covered bricks. The sedan pulled up before the closed gate, an ancient guardhouse beside it. A plaque on the gate read Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

A guard appeared, flashlight in hand. D'Agosta leaned across Hayward, displaying his badge. "Lieutenant D'Agosta. I have an appointment to see Dr. Ostrom."

The man retreated into the guardhouse, checked a printed list. A moment later, the gate creaked slowly open. Hayward drove past and up a cobbled drive to a rambling structure, its battlements and towers half obscured by drifting mist. Along its upper edge, D'Agosta could see rows of crenellated stone, like broken teeth against the blackness.

"My God," Hayward said, peering through the windshield. "Pendergast's great-aunt is in there!"

D'Agosta nodded. "Apparently, this place used to be an expensive sanatorium for tubercular millionaires. Now it's a loony bin for murderers found not guilty by reason of insanity."

"What did she do, exactly?"

"Constance tells me she poisoned her whole family."

Hayward glanced at him. "Her whole family?"

"Mother, father, husband, brother, and two children. She thought they'd been possessed by devils. Or maybe the souls of Yankee soldiers shot dead by her father. Nobody seems to be quite sure. Whatever the case, be sure to keep your distance. She's apparently skilled at acquiring razor blades and concealing them on her person. Put two orderlies in the emergency room in the last twelve months."

"No kidding."

Inside, Mount Mercy Hospital smelled of rubbing alcohol and damp stone. Beneath the drab institutional paint, D'Agosta could still glimpse the remains of an elegant building, with hand-carved wood ceilings and paneled walls, the hallway floors of well-worn marble.

Dr. Ostrom was waiting for them in a "quiet room" on the second floor. He was a tall man in a spotless medical coat who, even without speaking, managed to convey the air of having several more important things to do. Glancing around the sparsely appointed space, D'Agosta noticed that everything-table, plastic chairs, light fixture-was either bolted to the floor or hidden behind steel mesh.

D'Agosta introduced himself and Hayward to Ostrom, who nodded politely in return but did not offer to shake hands. "You're here to see Cornelia Pendergast," he said.