Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

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 innocent, let him have his day in court."

"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, Vinnie, the man's a serial killer. Four innocent people are dead. And there's another thing you seem to be overlooking. Your actions to date-keeping Pendergast's existence secret, lying to me, lying to Captain Singleton-border on obstruction of justice. Now that you know Pendergast is a fugitive-that's right, a warrant for his arrest has already been sworn out-any further actions on your part to protect him will amount to criminal obstruction and accessory after the fact. You're already in deep shit, and this is the only way you're going to get out of it. You bring him in, or you go to jail. It's that simple."

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."

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.

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."