Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

TWELVE

FOR A moment, D'Agosta went rigid in shock and disbelief. The voice was familiar and yet strange. Instinctively, he tried to speak again, but the gloved hand clamped down still harder over his mouth.

"Shhhh."

The elevator doors rolled open with a faint chime. Still holding D'Agosta in a tight restraint, the man peered cautiously out into the dark basement corridor, looking carefully in both directions. Then he gave D'Agosta a gentle shove out into the dingy hall, steering him through a series of narrow, high-ceilinged passages of yellow cinder block. At last, he brought D'Agosta up short before a scuffed metal door, unlabeled and painted the same color as the walls. They were near the building's power plant: the low rumble of furnaces was clearly audible. The man glanced around once again, then stopped to examine a small cobweb that stretched across one edge of the door frame. Only then did he withdraw a key from his pocket, unlock the door, and usher D'Agosta quickly inside, closing the door and carefully locking it.

"Glad to see you looking so well, Vincent."

D'Agosta could not summon a word.

"My sincerest apologies for the brusque behavior," the man said, crossing the room with swift steps and checking the lone basement window. "We may speak freely here."

D'Agosta remained astounded by the disconnect between the man's voice-those unmistakable, mellifluous southern tones with the lazy consistency of molasses-and the man himself: a total stranger in a spotty doorman's uniform, stocky, dark-complected, with brown hair and eyes and a round face. Even his bearing, his manner of walking, was unfamiliar.

"Pendergast?" D'Agosta asked, finally finding his voice.

The man bowed. "The very same, Vincent."

"Pendergast!" And before he realized what he was doing, D'Agosta had crushed the FBI agent in a bear hug.

Pendergast went rigid for a few seconds. Then, gently but firmly, he disengaged himself from the embrace and took a step back. "Vincent, I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you again. I have missed you."

D'Agosta seized his hand and shook it, embarrassment mingling with the surprise, relief, and joy. "I thought you were dead. How-?"

"I must apologize for the deception. I'd intended to remain 'dead' even longer. But circumstances have forced my hand." He turned his back. "Now, if you don't mind…" He slipped out of the doorman's coat, which D'Agosta could now see was cleverly padded around the shoulders and midriff, and hung it on the back of the door.

"What happened to you?" D'Agosta asked. "How did you escape? I turned Fosco's castle upside down looking for you. Where the hell have you been?" As the initial shock began to recede, he felt himself filling with a thousand questions.

Pendergast smiled faintly under this barrage. "You shall know all, I promise. But first, make yourself comfortable-I'll only be a moment." And with that, he turned and vanished into a back room.

For the first time, D'Agosta examined his surroundings. He was in the living room of a small, dingy apartment. A threadbare sofa was shoved against one wall, flanked by two wing chairs, their arms spotted with stains. A cheap coffee table held a stack of Popular Mechanicsmagazines. A battered rolltop desk sat against one wall, its writing surface bare save for a sleek Apple PowerBook: the only thing out of place in the monochromatic room. Some faded Hummel pictures of big-eyed children hung on the nondescript walls. A bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks, mostly popular novels and cheesy best sellers. D'Agosta was amused to find a personal favorite, Ice Limit III: Return to Cape Horn,among the well-thumbed reads. Beyond the living room, an open door led to a kitchen, small but tidy. The place was about as far removed from Pendergast's digs at the Dakota or his Riverside Drive mansion as you could get.

There was a faint rustle and D'Agosta jumped to find Pendergast-the real Pendergast-standing in the doorway: tall, slender, his silver eyes glittering. His hair was still brown, his skin swarthy, but his face had morphed back into the fine, aquiline features D'Agosta knew so well.

Pendergast smiled again, as if reading D'Agosta's mind. "Cheek pads," he said. "Remarkable how effectively they can change one's appearance. I've removed them for the present, however, since I find them rather uncomfortable. Along with the brown contact lenses."

"I'm floored. I knew you were a master of disguises, but this beats all… I mean, even the room…" D'Agosta jerked a thumb in the direction of the bookcase.

Pendergast looked pained. "Even here, alas, nothing can appear out of place. I must keep up the image of doorman."

"And a surly one at that."

"I find that exhibiting unpleasant personality traits helps one evade deeper scrutiny. Once people typecast me as a peevish doorman with a chip on his shoulder, they look no farther. May I offer you a beverage?"

"Bud?"

Pendergast shuddered involuntarily. "My dissembling has its limits. Perhaps a Pernod or Campari?"

"No, thanks." D'Agosta grinned.

"I take it you received my letter."

"That's right. And I've been on the case ever since."

"Progress?"

"Precious little. I paid a visit to your great-aunt. But that can wait a bit. Right now, my friend, you have some serious explaining to do."

"Naturally." Pendergast motioned him to a seat and took a chair opposite. "I recall we parted in haste on a mountainside in Tuscany."

"You could say that. I'll never forget the last time I saw you, surrounded by a pack of boar-hunting dogs, every one eager to take a chunk out of you."

Pendergast nodded slowly, and his eyes seemed to go far away. "I was captured, bound, sedated, and carried back to the castle. Our corpulent friend had me transported deep into the tunnels beneath. There he chained me in a tomb whose former occupant had been unceremoniously swept out. He proceeded-in the most genteel way, of course-to wall me in."

"Good God." D'Agosta shuddered. "I brought the Italian police in to search for you the next morning, but it was no use. Fosco had removed all traces of our stay. The Italians thought I was a lunatic."

"I learned later of the count's curious death. Was that you?"

"Sure was."

Pendergast nodded approvingly. "What happened to the violin?"

"I couldn't leave it lying around the castle, so I took it and…" He paused, feeling uncertain how Pendergast would feel about what he had done.

Pendergast raised his eyebrows in query.

"I brought it to Viola Maskelene. I told her you were dead."

"I see. How did she react?"

"She was very shocked, very upset. Although she tried to cover that up. I think…" D'Agosta hesitated. "I think she cares for you."

Pendergast was silent, his face a mask.

D'Agosta and Pendergast had first met Viola Maskelene the prior November, while working on a case in Italy. It had been obvious to D'Agosta that, from the moment the two saw each other, something ineffable had passed between Pendergast and the young Englishwoman. He could only guess what Pendergast was now thinking.

Pendergast suddenly roused himself. "You did the correct thing, and now we can consider the case of the Stormcloud violin definitively closed."

"But look," D'Agosta said, "how did you escape the castle? How long were you walled up down there?"

"I was chained in the tomb for almost forty-eight hours."

"In the dark?"

Pendergast nodded. "Slowly suffocating, I might add. I found a certain specialized form of meditation to be most useful."

"And then?"

"I was rescued."

"By who?"

"My brother."

D'Agosta, still reeling from Pendergast's near-miraculous reappearance, felt himself go numb with shock. "Your brother?Diogenes?"

"Yes."

"But I thought he hated you."

"Yes. And because he hates me, he needs me."

"For what?"

"For at least the past six months, Diogenes had made it his business to monitor my movements, as part of his preparation for the crime. I regret to say I was completely unaware of it. I had always believed myself the biggest impediment to his success and that someday he would attempt to kill me. But I was wrong-foolishly wrong. The oppositewas true. When Diogenes learned of my peril, he launched a daring rescue. He entered the castle, disguised as a local-he is more the master of disguise than I am-and freed me from the tomb."

D'Agosta was seized by a sudden thought. "Wait. His eyes are two different colors, right?"

Pendergast nodded again. "One is hazel, the other a milky blue."

"I saw him.On the hillside there, above Fosco's castle. Just after we were separated. He was standing in the shadow of a rock ledge, watching the proceedings, as calm as if it was the first race at Aqueduct."

"That was him. After freeing me from my imprisonment, he transported me to a private clinic outside Pisa, where I recuperated from dehydration, exposure, and the wounds inflicted by Fosco's dogs."

"I still don't get it. If he hated you-if he planned to commit this so-called perfect crime-why not just leave you walled up?"

Pendergast smiled again, but this time the smile held no mirth. "You must always remember, Vincent, that we are dealing with a uniquely deviant criminal mind. How little I understood his real plans."

At this, Pendergast abruptly rose and went to the kitchen. A moment later, D'Agosta heard the clink of ice in a glass. When the agent returned, he held a bottle of Lillet in one hand and a tumbler in the other.

"Are you sure I can't interest you in a drink?"

"No. Now tell me, for God's sake, what you mean."

Pendergast splashed a few fingers of Lillet into the glass. "If I had died, I would have ruined everything for Diogenes. You see, Vincent, Iam the primary object of his crime."

"You?You're going to be the victim? Then why-?"

"I am not goingto be the victim. I already amthe victim."

"What?"

"The crime has commenced. It is being successfully executed as we speak."

"You're not serious."

"I have never been more serious in my life." Pendergast took a long gulp of Lillet, refilled the glass. "Diogenes disappeared during my recovery at the private clinic in Pisa. As soon as I recovered, I returned to New York, incognito. I knew his plans were almost mature, and New York seemed the best place to mount the effort to stop him. I had little doubt the crime would take place here. This city offers the greatest anonymity, the best opportunities to hide, adopt an alter ego, develop his plan of attack. And so now-aware that my brother had been keeping tabs on my movements-I remained 'dead' as a way to move about unseen. It meant keeping all of you in the dark. Even Constance." At this, a stab of pain crossed Pendergast's face. "I regret that more than I can say. Still, it seemed the most prudent way to proceed."

"And so you became a doorman."

"The position allowed me to keep an eye on you and, through you, others important to me. I have a better chance of hunting Diogenes from the shadows. And I would not have revealed myself had certain events not forced my hand prematurely."

"What events?"

"The hanging of Charles Duchamp."

"That bizarre murder over by Lincoln Center?"

"Correct. That, and another murder in New Orleans three days ago. Torrance Hamilton, professor emeritus. Poisoned in front of a crowded lecture hall."

"What's the connection?"

"Hamilton was one of my tutors in high school, the man who taught me French, Italian, and Mandarin. We were very close. Duchamp was my dearest-in fact, my only-childhood friend. He's the only person from my youth I've remained in touch with. Both murdered by Diogenes."

"It couldn't be a coincidence?"

"Impossible. Hamilton was poisoned by a rare nerve toxin, placed in his water glass. It's a synthetic toxin, very similar to that produced by a certain spider native to Goa. An ancestor of my father's died of a bite from that same spider when he was a minor functionary in India during the Raj." Pendergast took another sip. "Duchamp was hung from a noose, which then parted, plunging him twenty stories to his death. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner. He was hanged in New Orleans in 1871 for murdering his wife and her lover. Because the gibbet had been badly damaged in recent riots, they hung him instead from one of the upper courthouse windows on Decatur Street. But Maurice's violent struggles, combined with a defective rope, caused it to part, sending him plummeting to his death."

D'Agosta stared at his friend in horror.

"These deaths, and the manner in which they were staged, were Diogenes's way of attracting my attention. Perhaps now, Vincent, you can understand why Diogenes needs me alive."

"You can't mean that he's-"

"Precisely. I had always assumed his crime would be against humanity. But now I know Iam his target. My brother's so-called perfect crime is to murder everyone close to me.That's the real reason he rescued me from Fosco's castle. He doesn't want me dead, he wants me alive-alive so he can destroy me in a far more exquisite way, leaving me filled with misery and self-reproach, torturing myself with the knowledge that I was unable to save those few people on earth…" Pendergast paused, took a steadying breath. "Those few people on earth I truly care about."

D'Agosta swallowed. "I can't believe this monster's related to you."

"Now that I know the true nature of his crime, I've been forced to abandon my initial plan and develop a new one. It's not an ideal plan, but it is the best possible under the circumstances."

"Tell me."

"We mustprevent Diogenes from killing again. That means locating him. And here's where I'll need your help, Vincent. You must use your access as a law enforcement officer to glean as much as you can from the crime scene evidence."

He handed a cell phone to D'Agosta. "Here's a phone I'll use to keep in contact with you. Because time is of the essence, we'll need to start locally, with Charles Duchamp. Dig up whatever evidence you can find and bring it to me. No crumb is too small. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward-but for God's sake don't tell her what you're up to. Not even Diogenes can leave a totally clean crime scene."

"Good as done." D'Agosta paused. "So what's with the date on the letter? January 28?"

"I no longer have any doubt that is the day he plans to complete his crime. But it is vital you keep in mind that the crime has already begun.Today is the twenty-second. My brother has been planning this infamy for years, maybe decades. All his preparations are in place. I shudder to think who he might kill in the next six days." And at this, Pendergast sat forward and stared at D'Agosta, his eyes glittering in the dim room. "Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me-and that would certainly include you, Vincent-may die."

THIRTEEN

Smithback took his usual place in the darkest corner of the Bones, the dingy restaurant behind the museum favored as an after-hours hangout by museum employees who-it seemed-never tired of the sight of bones. The official name of the place was the Blarney Stone Tavern; it had acquired its nickname from the owner's penchant for hammering bones of all shapes, sizes, and sources onto the walls and ceiling.

Smithback looked at his watch. Miracle of miracles, he was ten minutes early. Maybe Nora would be early, too, and they could have a few extra minutes to talk. He felt like he hadn't seen his new wife in ages. She had promised to meet him here for a burger and beer before she returned to the museum to work late on the big upcoming show. And he himself had a story of sorts to write up and file before the 2 a.m. deadline.

He shook his head. What a life: two months married and he hadn't been laid in a week. But it wasn't so much making love he missed as Nora's companionship. Talk. Friendship. The truth was, Nora was Smithback's best friend, and right now he needed his best friend. The Duchamp murder story was going badly: he'd gotten nothing more than the same crap as the other papers. The cops were keeping a tight lid on information, and his usual sources could offer nothing. Here he was, Smithback of the Times,and his latest stories were nothing more than the reheated leftovers of a few briefings. Meanwhile, he could almost smell Bryce Harriman's ambition to muscle in on the story, take it away from him, leave him with the damn Dangler assignment he'd managed to slough off so adroitly when the Duchamp case first broke.

"Whence the dark look?"

Smithback looked up, and there was Nora. Nora, her bronze-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, her freckled nose wrinkled by a smile, her green eyes sparkling with life.

"This seat taken?" she asked.

"Are you kidding? Jesus, woman, you're a sight for sore eyes."

She slid her bag to the floor and sat down. The obligatory droopy-eared, hangdog-faced waiter appeared, like a pallbearer at a funeral, and stood silently awaiting their order.

"Bangers and mash, fries, glass of milk," said Nora.

"Nothing stronger?" Smithback asked.

"I'm going back to work."

"So am I, but that never stopped me. I'll take a shot of that fifty-year-old Glen Grant, backed up by a steak and kidney pie."

The waiter gave a mournful dip of his head and was gone.

Smithback took her hand. "Nora, I miss you."

"Likewise. What a crazy life we lead."

"What are we doinghere in New York City? We should go back to Angkor Wat and live in some Buddhist temple in the jungle for the rest of our lives."

"And take a vow of celibacy?"

Smithback waved his hand. "Celibacy? We'll be like Tristan and Isolde in our own jeweled cave, making love all day long."

Nora blushed. "It was quite a shock, coming back to reality after that honeymoon."

"Yeah. Especially to find that circus ape Harriman, grinning and bobbing in my doorway."

"Bill, you're too obsessed with Harriman. The world's full of people like that. Ignore him and move on. You should see the people I have to work with at the museum. Some of them should be numbered and put in a glass case."

Their food arrived within minutes, along with Smithback's drink. He picked it up, clinked Nora's glass of milk. "Slainte."

"Chin-chin."

Smithback took a sip. Thirty-six dollars a shot and worth every penny. He watched Nora tuck into her meal. Now, there was a woman with healthy appetites-no fussy little salads for her. He recalled a certain moment that illustrated his point, back in the ruins of Banteay Chhmar, and felt an amorous stirring in his loins.

"So how are things at the museum?" he asked. "You whipping them into shape over that new show?"

"I'm only the junior curator, which means I'm mostly a whippee."

"Ouch."

"Here we are, six days from opening, and a quarter of the artifacts haven't even been mounted yet. It's a zoo. I've got only one more day to write label copy for thirty objects, and then I have to curate and organize an entire exhibit on Anasazi burial practices. And just today they said they want me to give a lecture on southwestern prehistory for the lecture series. Can you believe it? Thirteen thousand years of southwestern prehistory in ninety minutes, complete with slides." She took another bite.

"They're asking too much of you, Nora."

"Everybody's in the same boat. Sacred Images is the biggest thing to hit the museum in years. And on top of that, the geniuses that run the place have decided to upgrade the museum's security system. You remember what happened with the security system the last time they had a blockbuster exhibition? You know, Superstition?"

"Oh, God. Don't remind me."

"They don't want even the possibility of a repetition. Except that every time they upgrade the security for a new hall, they have to shut and lock the damn place down. It's impossible to get around-you never know what's going to be closed off. The bright side is that in six days it'll be over."

"Yeah, and then we'll be ready for another vacation."

"Or a stretch in a padded cell."

"We'll always have Angkor," Smithback intoned dramatically.

Nora laughed, squeezed his hand. "And how's the Duchamp story going?"

"Terrible. The homicide captain in charge is a woman named Hayward, a real ballbuster. Runs a tight ship. No leaks anywhere. I can't get a scoop to save my life."

"I'm sorry, Bill."

"Nora Kelly?"

A voice broke in, vaguely familiar. Smithback looked up to see a woman approaching their table-small, intense, brown hair, glasses. He froze in astonishment, and so did she. They stared at each other in silence.

Suddenly, she smiled. "Bill?"

Smithback grinned. "Margo Green! I thought you were living up in Boston, working for that company, what's its name?"

"GeneDyne. I was, but corporate life wasn't for me. Great money, but no fulfillment. So now I'm back at the museum."

"I had no idea."

"Just started six weeks ago. And you?"

"Wrote a few more books, as you probably know. I'm now at the Times.Got back from my honeymoon just a few weeks ago."

"Congratulations. Guess that means you won't be calling me Lotus Blossom anymore. I assume this is the lucky woman?"

"She sure is. Nora, meet an old friend of mine, Margo Green. Nora works at the museum, too."

"I know." Margo turned. "In fact, Bill, no offense, but I was actually looking for her, not you." She stretched out her hand. "Perhaps you don't remember, Dr. Kelly, but I'm the new editor of Museology.We met at the last departmental meeting."

Nora returned the handshake. "Of course. I read all about you in Bill's book Relic.How are things?"

"May I sit down?"

"To tell you the truth, we…" Nora's voice trailed off as Margo took a seat.

"I'll only be here for a moment."

Smithback stared. Margo Green.It seemed like another lifetime, it was so long ago. She hadn't changed much, except that maybe she seemed more relaxed, more confident. Still trim and athletic. She was wearing an expensive tailored suit, a far cry from the baggy L. L. Bean shirts and Levi's of her graduate student days. He glanced down at his own Hugo Boss suit. They had all grown up a little.

"I can't believe it," he said. "Two heroines from my books, together for the first time."

Margo cocked her head questioningly. "Oh, really? How's that?"

"Nora was the heroine of my book Thunderhead."

"Oh. Sorry. Haven't read it."

Smithback kept smiling gamely. "What's it like to be back at the museum?"

"It's changed a lot since we were first there."

Smithback felt Nora's gaze upon him. He wondered if she assumed Margo was an old girlfriend and that perhaps there were certain salty things he'd left out of his memoirs.

"Seems like ages ago," Margo went on.

"It was ages ago."

"I often wonder what happened to Lavinia Rickman and Dr. Cuthbert."

"No doubt there's a special circle of hell reserved for those two."

Margo chuckled. "What about that cop D'Agosta? And Agent Pendergast?"

"Don't know about D'Agosta," Smithback said. "But the word around the Timesforeign desk is that Pendergast went missing under mysterious circumstances a few months ago. Flew to Italy on assignment and never came back."

A shocked look came over Margo's face. "Really? How strange."

A brief silence settled over the table.

"Anyway," Margo resumed, turning once again to Nora, "I wanted to ask your help."

"Sure," Nora said. "What is it?"

"I'm about to publish an editorial on the importance of repatriating Great Kiva masks to the Tano tribe. You know about their request?"

"I do. I've also read the editorial. It's circulating the department in draft."

"Naturally, I've run into opposition from the museum administration, Collopy in particular. I've started contacting all the members of the Anthropology Department to see if I can build a united front. The independence of Museologymust be maintained, and those masks must be returned. We've got to be together on this as a department."

"What is it you want me to do?" asked Nora.

"I'm not circulating a petition or anything quite so overt. I'm just asking for informal support from members of the department if it comes to a showdown. A verbal assurance. That's all."

Smithback grinned. "Sure, no problem, you can always count on Nora-"

"Just a minute," Nora said.

Smithback fell silent, surprised at the sharp tone.

"Margo was speaking to me," Nora said dryly.

"Right." Smithback hastily smoothed down an unrepentant cowlick and retreated to his drink.

Nora turned to Margo with a rather chilly smile. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to help."

Smithback stared from Nora to Margo in surprise.

"May I ask why not?" Margo asked calmly.

"Because I don't agree with you."

"But it's obvious that those Great Kiva masks belong to the Tanos-"

Nora held up a hand. "Margo, I am thoroughly familiar with them and with your arguments. In one sense, you're right. They belonged to the Tano and they shouldn't have been collected. But now they belong to all of humanity-they've become a part of the human record. What's more, taking those masks out of the Sacred Images exhibition would be devastating this late in the game-and I'm one of the curators of the show. Finally, I'm a southwestern archaeologist by training. If we started giving back every sacred item in the museum, there'd be nothing left. Everythingis sacred to Native Americans-that's one of the beautiful things about Native American culture." She paused. "Look, what's done is done, the world is the way it is, and not all wrongs can be righted. I'm sorry I can't give you a better answer, but there it is. I have to be honest."

"But the issue of editorial freedom…"

"I'm with you one hundred percent on that one. Publish your editorial. But don't ask me to back your arguments. And don't ask the department to endorse your private opinions."

With that, Margo stared first at Nora, then at Smithback.

Smithback grinned nervously, took another sip of his drink.

Margo rose. "Thank you for your directness."

"You're welcome."

She turned to Smithback. "It's great to see you again, Bill."

"Sure thing," he mumbled.

He watched Margo walk away. Then he realized Nora's gaze was on him.

" 'Lotus Blossom'?" she said tartly.

"It was just a joke."

"Former girlfriend of yours?"

"No, never," he replied hastily.

"You're sure about that?"

"Not even a kiss."

"I'm glad to hear it. I can't stand that woman." She turned to stare at Margo's departing figure. Then she looked back. "And to think she hasn't read Thunderhead.I mean, that's much better than some of the earlier stuff you wrote. I'm sorry, Bill, but that book Relic-well, let's just say you've matured a lot as a writer."

"Hey, what was wrong with Relic?"

She picked up her fork and finished her meal in silence.