Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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FIVE

There were no secretaries, receptionists, or low-echelon flunkies seated outside the entrance to Glen Singleton's office. The room itself was no larger than any of the other few dozen offices scattered around the cramped and dusty confines of the precinct house. There was no sign on the door announcing the exalted status of its tenant. Unless you were a cop yourself, there would be no way of knowing this was the office of the head honcho.

But that, D'Agosta reflected as he approached, was the captain's style. Captain Singleton was that rarest of police brass, a guy who'd worked his way up honorably through the ranks, built a reputation not from kissing ass, but by solving tough cases with solid police work. He lived and breathed for one reason: to get criminals off the streets. He was perhaps the hardest-working cop D'Agosta had ever known, save Laura Hayward. D'Agosta had worked for more than his fair share of incompetent desk jockeys, and that made him respect Singleton's professionalism all the more. He sensed that Singleton respected him, too, and to D'Agosta that meant a great deal.

All this made what he was about to do even harder.

Singleton's door was wide open, as usual. It wasn't his style to limit access-any cop who wanted to see him could do so at any time. D'Agosta knocked, half leaning into the doorway. Singleton was there, standing behind the desk, talking into the phone. Even at his desk, the man never seemed to sit down. He was in his late forties, tall and lean, with a swimmer's physique-he swam laps every morning at six, without fail. He had a long face and an aquiline profile. Every other week he had his salt-and-pepper hair cut by the ridiculously expensive barber in the basement of the Carlyle, and he always looked as well groomed as a presidential candidate.

Singleton flashed a smile at D'Agosta and gestured for him to come in.

D'Agosta stepped inside. Singleton pointed to a seat, but D'Agosta shook his head: something about the captain's restless energy made him feel more comfortable on his feet.

Singleton was clearly talking to somebody in NYPD public relations. His voice was polite, but D'Agosta knew that, inside, Singleton was doing a slow boil: his interest lay in police work, not P.R. He hated the very concept, telling D'Agosta, "Either you catch the perp or you don't. So what's there to spin?"

D'Agosta glanced around. The office was decorated so minimally it was almost anonymous. No photos of family; no obligatory picture of the captain shaking hands with the mayor or commissioner. Singleton was one of the most decorated cops on active duty, but there were no commendations for bravery, no plaques or citations framed on the walls. Instead, there was just some paperwork sitting on a corner of his desk, fifteen or twenty manila folders on a nearby shelf. On a second shelf, D'Agosta could see handbooks on forensic technique and crime scene investigation, half a dozen well-thumbed books on jurisprudence.

Singleton hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. "Hell," he said. "I feel like I spend more time juggling community action groups than I do catching bad guys. It's enough to make me wish I was on foot patrol again." He turned toward D'Agosta with another short smile. "Vinnie, how's it going?"

"Okay," D'Agosta replied, not feeling okay at all. Singleton's friendliness and approachability made this little visit all the more difficult.

The captain hadn't requested D'Agosta: he'd been assigned to the division by the commissioner's office. This would have guaranteed D'Agosta a suspicious, hostile reception from other brass he'd known-Jack Waxie, for instance. Waxie would have felt threatened, kept D'Agosta at arm's length, made sure he got the low-profile cases. But Singleton was just the opposite. He'd welcomed D'Agosta, personally brought him up to speed on the details and procedures unique to his office, even put him in charge of the Dangler investigation-and, at the moment, cases didn't get any higher-profile than that.

The Dangler hadn't killed anybody. He hadn't even used a gun. But he'd done something almost as bad: he'd subjected the NYPD to public ridicule. A thief who emptied ATMs of cash, then whipped out his dong for the benefit of their security cameras, was perfect fodder for the daily tabloids. So far, the Dangler had paid visits to eleven ATMs. Each new robbery meant more front-page headlines, smirking, full of innuendo. Each time, the NYPD had its face rubbed in it afresh. Dangler's streak grows longer,the Posthad trumpeted after the last robbery, three days before. Police find themselves short.

"How's our witness?" Singleton asked. "She panning out?" He stood behind his desk, looking at D'Agosta. The captain had piercing blue eyes, and when they looked at you, it was like you were the center of the universe: for that brief moment, at least, you had his complete and undivided attention. It was unnerving.

"Her story checks out against the security cam."

"Good, good. Hell, you'd think in this digital age the banks would be able to manage better coverage with their security cams. The guy seems to know their sweep, their range-you think he worked in security once?"

"We're looking into that."

"Eleven hits and all we still know for sure is he's Caucasian."

And circumcised,D'Agosta thought mirthlessly. "I had our detectives call all the branch managers on the hot list. They're installing additional hidden cameras."

"The perp might be working for the security firm that provides the cameras."

"Looking into that, too."

"One step ahead of me. That's what I like to hear." Singleton moved toward the pile of paperwork, began riffling through it. "This guy's pretty territorial. All his jobs have been within a twenty-square-block area. So the next step is to stake out the choicest machines he hasn't hit yet. Unless we can narrow down the list of potentials, we'll be spread too thin. Thank God we aren't working any active homicides at the moment. Vinnie, I'll leave it to you to interface with the task force, draw up a list of most likely ATMs based on the earlier hits, and allocate manpower for the stakeouts. Who knows? We might just get lucky."

Here it comes,D'Agosta thought. He licked his lips. "Actually, that's what I came in to talk to you about."

Singleton stopped, fixed him once again with his intense gaze. Wrapped up in his work the way he was, it hadn't occurred to the captain that D'Agosta might have come in about anything else. "What's on your mind?"

"I don't really know how to say this, but… sir, I wish to request a leave of absence."

Singleton's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A leave of absence?"

"Yes, sir." D'Agosta knew how it sounded. But no matter how he'd rehearsed in his mind, it never seemed to come out right.

Singleton held his gaze a moment longer. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. A leave of absence. You've been here six weeks, and you want a leave of absence?

"Anything I should know, Vinnie?" he asked in a low voice.

"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.

"Vinnie, you know I can't do that."

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, Vinnie. Singleton's own mother died of cancer. And guess what? He never missed a day of work. Had the funeral on a Sunday. Everybodyknows that story."

"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, Vinnie.

"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, Vinnie, and you know what it was. He didn't respect the rules. He thought he was above the rest of us schmucks who are bound by the regulations. And I hate to see you picking up that attitude."

"I'm not picking up that attitude."

"This search for Pendergast's brother is so far beyond the rule book it isn't even funny. I mean what, exactly, are you planning to do if you find this Diogenes?"

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.

"At her grandnephew's request."

"And you're familiar with the, ah, special requirements necessary for such a visit?"

"Yes."

"Keep well back at all times. Make no sudden movements. Do not, at any time, touch her or allow her to touch you. You'll only be able to spend a few minutes with her; any longer and she's likely to become excited. And it's of paramount importance she not become excited. When I see any such indications, I'll be forced to conclude the interview immediately."

"I understand."

"She doesn't like receiving strangers and may not see you, and there's nothing I can do to force the issue. Even if you had a warrant…"

"Tell her I'm Ambergris Pendergast. Her brother." This was the name Constance Greene had suggested.

Dr. Ostrom frowned. "I don't approve of deception, Lieutenant."

"Then don't call it deception. Call it a white lie. It's important, Doctor. Lives may be at stake."

Dr. Ostrom seemed to consider this. Then he nodded brusquely, turned, and left the room through a heavy steel door set in the back wall.

All was silent for several minutes. Then-at what seemed a great distance-the voice of an elderly lady could be heard raised in querulous complaint. D'Agosta and Hayward exchanged glances.

The raillery grew louder. Then the steel door opened again and Cornelia Pendergast was wheeled into view.

She was sitting in a wheelchair whose every surface was encased in thick black rubber. A small needlepoint pillow sat in her lap, on which rested her two withered hands. Ostrom himself pushed the wheelchair, and behind him came two orderlies wearing padded protective garments. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned dress of black taffeta. She looked tiny, with sticklike arms and a narrow frame, her face obscured by a mourning veil. It seemed impossible to D'Agosta that this frail-looking creature had recently slashed two orderlies. As she came into view and the wheelchair stopped, the string of invectives ceased.

"Raise my veil," she commanded. Her southern accent was cultivated, almost British, in its modulations.

One of the orderlies approached and-standing at arm's length– lifted the veil with a gloved hand. Unconsciously, D'Agosta leaned forward, staring curiously.

Cornelia Pendergast stared back. She had a sharp, catlike face and pale blue eyes. Despite her advancing years, her liver-spotted skin had a strangely youthful glow. As he looked at her, D'Agosta's heart accelerated. He could see-in her intent gaze, in the lines of her cheekbones and jaw-faint outlines of his vanished friend. The resemblance would have been stronger but for the gleam of madness in her eyes.

For a moment, the room fell utterly silent. As Great-Aunt Cornelia held his gaze, D'Agosta became afraid she would erupt with anger at his lie.

But then she smiled. "Dear brother. So good of you to come all this way to visit me. You've kept away so verylong, you bad creature. Not that I blame you, of course-it's almost more than I can bear, living in the North with all these barbarous Yankees."She gave a little laugh.

Okay,D'Agosta thought to himself. Constance had told him Great-Aunt Cornelia lived in a fantasy world and would believe herself to be in one of two places: Ravenscry, her husband's estate north of New York City, or in the old Pendergast family mansion in New Orleans. Obviously, today she was in the former.

"Nice to see you, Cornelia," D'Agosta replied guardedly.

"And who is this lovely young lady at your side?"

"This is Laura, my… my wife."

Hayward shot him a glance.

"How delightful! I always wondered when you'd take a bride. High time the Pendergast line was invigorated by new blood. May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps? Or better still, your favorite, a mint julep?"

She glanced at the orderlies, who had taken up positions as far away from the woman as possible. They remained motionless.

"We're fine, thank you," D'Agosta said.

"I suppose it's just as well. We have such dreadfulhelp these days." She flapped a hand toward the two orderlies behind her, who fairly jumped. Then she leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence across the room. "I envy you. Life is so much more gracious in the South. People up here take no pride in being members of the servile class."

As D'Agosta nodded in sympathy, a strange, dreamlike unreality began to settle over him. Here was this elegant old woman chatting amiably to a brother she'd poisoned almost forty years before. He wondered just how he was going to go about this. Ostrom had said to keep the meeting short. He'd better get to the point.

"How, ah, how is the family?" he asked.

"I'll never forgive my husband for bringing us up to this drafty pile. Not only is the climate dreary, but the lack of culture is shocking. My dear children are my comfort."

The fond smile that accompanied this observation chilled D'Agosta. He wondered if she'd watched them die.

"Of course, there are no neighbors fit for company. As a result, my days are my own. I try to walk for the sake of my health, but the air is so raw I'm frequently driven inside. I've gone as pale as a ghost. See for yourself." And from the pillow, she lifted up a thin, palsied hand for his inspection.

Automatically, D'Agosta stepped forward. Ostrom frowned and nodded for him to stay back.

"How about the rest of the family?" D'Agosta asked. "I haven't heard from-from our nephews in a long time."

"Aloysius comes to visit me here every now and then. When he needs advice." She smiled again, and her eyes flashed. "He's such a good boy. Attentive to his elders. Not like the other one."

"Diogenes," D'Agosta said.

Great-Aunt Cornelia nodded. "Diogenes." She gave a shudder. "From the day he was born, he was different. And then there was his illness… and those peculiar eyes of his." She paused. "Youknow what they said about him."

"Tell me."

"Dear me, Ambergris, have you forgotten?"

For an uncomfortable moment, D'Agosta thought a look of skepticism passed over the old woman's face. But it soon vanished as her expression turned inward. "The Pendergast bloodline has been tainted for centuries. There but for the grace of God go you and I, Ambergris."

A suitably pious pause followed this statement. "Young Diogenes was touchedeven from the beginning. A bad seed indeed. After his sudden illness, the darker side of our lineage reached full flower in him."

D'Agosta remained silent, not daring to say more. After a moment, Great-Aunt Cornelia stirred and began again.

"He was a misanthrope from the beginning. Both boys were loners, of course-they were Pendergasts-but with Diogenes it was different. Young Aloysius had one close friend his age, I recall-he became quite a famous painter. And, dear me, Aloysius wouldspend a lot of time in the bayou among the Cajuns and others of that sort, to which I naturally objected. But Diogenes had no friends at all. Not a one. You remember how none of the other children would go near him. They were all scared to death of him. The illness made it so much worse."

"Illness?"

"Very sudden-scarlet fever, they said. That's when his eye changed color, went milky. He's blind in that eye, you know." She shuddered.

"Now, Aloysius, he was just the opposite. The poor boy was bullied. You know how we Pendergasts are frequent objects of scorn among the common folk. Aloysius was ten, I believe, when he began visiting that queer old Tibetan man down on Bourbon Street-he always had the most uncommon acquaintances. The man taught him all that Tibetan nonsense, you know, with the unpronounceable name, changor choongsomething or other. He also taught Aloysius that peculiar way of fighting which guaranteed he was never bothered by bullies again."

"But the bullies never picked on Diogenes."

"Children have a sixth sense about that kind of thing. And to think Diogenes was younger and smaller than Aloysius."

"How did the two brothers get along?" D'Agosta asked.

"Ambergris, you're not getting forgetful in your old age, are you, dear? You know Diogenes hatedhis older brother. Diogenes never cared for anyone but his mother, of course, but he seemed to put Aloysius in a special category altogether. After the illness particularly."

She paused, and for a moment her mad eyes seemed to dim, as if she was peering far into the past. "Surely, you remember Aloysius's pet mouse."

"Oh, sure. Of course."

"Incitatus he called it, after the emperor Caligula's favorite horse.

He was reading Suetonius at the time, and he used to walk around with the tiny beast on his shoulder, chanting: 'All hail Caesar's beautiful mouse, Incitatus!' I have a perfect horror of mice, you know, but the little white thing was so friendly and calm I found myself able to bear it. Aloysius was so patient with the creature, he loved it so. Oh, the tricks he taught it! Incitatus could walk upright on his hind legs. He must have responded to a dozen different commands. He could fetch a Ping-Pong ball for you and balance it on his nose like a seal. I remember you laughing so, dear, I feared your sides would split."

"I remember."

Great-Aunt Cornelia paused. Even the impassive guards seemed to be listening.

"And then one morning young Aloysius woke to find a wooden cross planted at the foot of his bed. A little cross, no more than six inches high, beautifully and lovingly made. Incitatus had been crucified upon it."

D'Agosta heard Laura Hayward inhale sharply.

"Nobody had to ask. Everyone knew who'd done it. It changed Aloysius. He never had another pet after Incitatus. As for Diogenes, that was just the beginning of his, ah, experimentson animals. Cats, dogs, even poultry and livestock began to disappear. I recall one particularly unpleasant incident with a neighbor's goat…"

At this, Great-Aunt Cornelia stopped speaking and began to laugh, quite softly, under her breath. It went on for a long time. Dr. Ostrom, growing alarmed, frowned at D'Agosta and pointed to his watch.

"When did you last see Diogenes?" D'Agosta asked quickly.

"Two days after the fire," the old woman replied.

"The fire," D'Agosta repeated, trying not to make it sound like a question.

"Of course,the fire," Great-Aunt Cornelia said, her voice suddenly agitated. "When else? The dreadful, dreadful fire that destroyed the family and convinced my husband to bring me and the children up to this drafty mansion. Away from New Orleans, away from all that."

"I think we're done here," Dr. Ostrom said. He nodded to the guards.

"Tell me about the fire," D'Agosta pressed.

The old woman's face, which had gone almost fierce, now took on a look of great sorrow. Her lower lip trembled, and her hands twitched beneath the restraints. Despite himself, D'Agosta couldn't help but marvel at the suddenness with which these changes overtook her.

"Now, listen," Dr. Ostrom began.

D'Agosta held up his hand. "One minute more. Please." When he looked back at Great-Aunt Cornelia, he found she was staring directly at him.

"That superstitious, hateful, ignorant mob. They burned our ancestral home, may the curse of Lucifer be on them and their children for all eternity. By that time, Aloysius was twenty and away at Oxford. But Diogenes was home that night. He saw his own mother and father burned alive. The look on his face when the authorities pulled him from the basement, where he'd gone to hide…" She shuddered. "Two days later, Aloysius returned. We were staying with relatives by then, in Baton Rouge. I recall Diogenes taking his older brother into another room and closing the door. They were only inside for five minutes. When Aloysius came out, his face was dead white. And Diogenes immediately walked out the front door and disappeared. He didn't take anything, not even a change of clothing. I never saw him again. The few times we heard from him, it was either by letter or through family bankers or solicitors, and then nothing. Until, of course, the news of his death."

There was a moment of tense silence. The sorrow had left the old woman's face, leaving it calm, composed.

"I do believe it's time for that mint julep, Ambergris." She turned sharply. "John! Three mint juleps, well chilled, ifyou please. Use the icehouse ice, it's so much sweeter."

Ostrom spoke sharply. "I'm sorry, your guests have to go."

"A pity."

An orderly arrived with a plastic cup of water. He handed it gingerly to the old woman, who took it in her withered hand. "That's enough, John. You are dismissed."

She turned to D'Agosta. "Dear Ambergris, you're leaving an old woman to drink alone, shame on you."

"It was nice seeing you," D'Agosta said.

"I do hope you and your lovely bride will come again. It's always a pleasure to see you… brother."Then she abruptly bared her teeth in what seemed half-smile, half-snarl; raised a spotted hand; and drew the black veil down over her face once again.