Dance of Death (2 page)

More deathly silence.

The fingers were digging in, the fist now pounding at the nose, which cracked faintly.

"Get them off me! They're
eating into my face!"

Oh,
shit:
blood was now gushing from the nostrils, splashing down on the white shirt and charcoal suit. The fingers were like claws on the face, ripping, tearing; and now one finger hooked up and-Dewayne saw with utter horror-worked itself into one eye socket.

"Out! Get them out!"

There was a sharp, rotating motion that reminded Dewayne of the scooping of ice cream, and suddenly the globe of the eye bulged out, grotesquely large, jittering, staring directly at Dewayne from an impossible angle.

Screams echoed across the lecture hall. Students in the front row recoiled. The T.A. jumped from his seat and ran up to Hamilton, who violently shrugged him off.

Dewayne found himself rooted to his seat, his mind a blank, his limbs paralyzed.

Professor Hamilton now took a mechanical step, and another, ripping at his face, tearing out clumps of hair, staggering as if he might fall directly on top of Dewayne.

"A doctor!" the T.A. screamed. "Get a doctor!"

The spell was broken. There was a sudden commotion, everyone rising at once, the sound of falling books, a loud hubbub of panicked voices.

"My face!" the professor shrieked over the din.
"Where is it?"

Chaos took over, students running for the door, some crying. Others rushed forward, toward the stricken professor, jumping onto the podium, trying to stop his murderous self-assault. The professor lashed out at them blindly, making a high-pitched, keening sound, his face a mask of red. Someone forcing his way down the row trod hard on Dewayne's foot. Drops of flying blood had spattered Dewayne's face: he could feel their warmth on his skin. Yet still he did not move. He found himself unable to take his eyes off the professor, unable to escape this nightmare.

The students had wrestled the professor to the surface of the podium and were now sliding about in his blood, trying to hold down his thrashing arms and bucking body. As Dewayne watched, the professor threw them off with demonic strength, grabbed the cup of water, smashed it against the podium, and-screaming- began to work the shards into his own neck, twisting and scooping, as if trying to dig something out.

And then, quite suddenly, Dewayne found he could move. He scrambled to his feet, skidded, ran along the row of seats to the aisle, and began sprinting up the stairs toward the back exit of the lecture hall. All he could think about was getting away from the unexplainable horror of what he'd just witnessed. As he shot out the door and dashed full speed down the corridor beyond, one phrase kept echoing in his mind, over and over and over:

I
will show you fear in a handful of dust.

TWO

"Dinnie? Vin? Sure you don't want any help in there?"

"No!" Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta tried to keep his voice cool and even. "No. It's all right. Just a couple more minutes."

He glanced up at the clock: almost nine.
A couple more minutes. Yeah, right.
He'd be lucky if he had dinner on the table by ten.

Laura Hayward's kitchen-he still thought of it as hers; he'd only moved in six weeks before-was usually an oasis of order, as calm and immaculate as Hayward herself. Now the place looked like a war zone. The sink was overflowing with soiled pots. Half a dozen empty cans lay in and around the wastebasket, dribbling out remnants of tomato sauce and olive oil. Almost as many cookbooks lay open on the counter, their pages obscured by bread crusts and blizzards of flour. The lone window looking down on the snowy intersection of 77th and First was speckled with grease from frying sausages. Although the vent fan was going full blast, the odor of burned meat lingered stubbornly in the air.

For weeks now, whenever their schedules allowed time with each other, Laura had thrown together-almost effortlessly, it seemed- meal after delicious meal. D'Agosta had been astonished. For his soon-to-be-ex-wife, now up in Canada, cooking had always been anordeal accompanied by histrionic sighs, clanging of pans, and- more often than not-disagreeable results. It was like night and day with Laura.

But along with his astonishment, D'Agosta also felt a bit threatened. As a detective captain in the NYPD, not only did Laura Hayward outrank him, but she outcooked him as well. Everybody knew men made the best chefs, especially Italians. They blew the French out of the water. And so he'd kept promising to cook her a real Italian dinner, just like his grandmother used to make. Each time he repeated the promise, the meal seemed to grow in complexity and spectacle. And at last, tonight was the night he would cook his grandmother's lasagna
napoletana.

Except that once he got in the kitchen, he realized he didn't remember exactly how his grandmother cooked lasagna
napoletana.
Oh, he'd watched dozens of times. He'd often helped out. But what precisely went into that
ragù
she spooned over the layers of pasta? And what was it she'd added to those tiny meatballs that-along with the sausage and various cheeses-made up the filling? He had turned in his desperation to Laura's cookbooks, but each one had offered conflicting suggestions. And so now here he was, hours later, everything at varying stages of completion, frustration mounting by the second.

He heard Laura say something from her banishment in the living room. He took a deep breath.

"What was that, babe?"

"I said I'll be home late tomorrow. Rocker's having a state-of-the-force meeting with all the captains on January 22. That leaves me only Monday evening to get status reports and personnel records up to date."

"Rocker and his paperwork. How
is
your pal the commissioner, by the way?"

"He's not my pal."

D'Agosta turned back to the
ragù,
boiling away on the stove. He remained convinced that he'd gotten his old job on the force back, his seniority restored, only because Laura had put a word in Rocker's ear. He didn't like it, but there it was.

A huge bubble of
ragù
rose from the pot, burst like a volcanic eruption, and spewed sauce over his hand. "Ouch!" he cried, dousing the hand in dishwater while turning down the flame.

"What's up?"

"Nothing. Everything's just fine." He stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon, realized the bottom had burned, moved it hastily onto a back burner. He raised the spoon to his lips a little gingerly. Not bad, not bad at all. Decent texture, nice mouth feel, only a slight burned taste. Not like his grandmother's, though.

"What else goes in the
ragù,
Nonna?" he murmured.

If there was any response from the choir invisible, D'Agosta couldn't hear it.

Suddenly, there was a loud hissing from the stove. The giant pot of salted water was bubbling over. Swallowing a curse, D'Agosta turned down the heat on that as well, tore open a box of pasta, dumped in a pound of lasagna.

The sound of music filtered in from the living room: Laura had put on a Steely Dan CD. "I swear I'm going to speak to the landlord about that doorman," she said through the door.

"Which doorman?"

"That new one who came on a few weeks ago. He's the surliest guy I've ever met. What kind of a doorman doesn't even open the door for you? And this morning he wouldn't call me a cab. Just shook his head and walked away. I don't think he speaks English. At least, he pretends he doesn't."

What do you expect for twenty-five hundred a month?
D'Agosta thought to himself. But it was her apartment, so he kept his mouth shut. And it was her money that paid the rent-at least for now. He was determined to change that as soon as possible.

When he'd moved in, he hadn't brought any expectations with him. He'd just gone through one of the worst times in his life, and he refused to let himself think more than a day ahead. Also, he was still in the early stages of what promised to be an unpleasant divorce: a new romantic entanglement probably wasn't the smartest thing for him right now. But this had turned out far better than he could ever have hoped. Laura Hayward was more than a girlfriend or lover-she'd become a soulmate. He'd thought that their both being on the job, her ranking him, would be a problem. It was just the opposite: it gave them common ground, a chance to help each other, to talk about their cases without worrying about confidentiality or second-guessers.

"Any new leads on the Dangler?" he heard Laura ask from the living room.

The Dangler was the NYPD's pet name for a perp who'd recently been stealing money from ATMs with a hacked bank card, then exposing his johnson to the security camera. Most of the incidents had been in D'Agosta's precinct.

"Got a possible eyewitness to yesterday's job."

"Eyewitness to what?" Laura asked suggestively.

"To the
face,
of course." D'Agosta gave the pasta a stir, regulated the boil. He glanced at the oven, made sure it was up to temperature. Then he turned back to the messy counter, mentally going over everything. Sausage: check. Meatballs: check. Ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella
fiordilatte:
all check.
Looks like I might pull this one out of a hat, after
all...

Hell.
He still had to grate the Parmesan.

He threw open a drawer, began rummaging frantically. As he did so, he thought he heard the doorbell ring.

Maybe it was his imagination: Laura didn't get all that many callers, and he sure as hell didn't get any. Especially this time of night. It was probably a delivery from the Vietnamese restaurant downstairs, knocking at the wrong door.

His hand closed over the box grater. He yanked it out, set it on the counter, grabbed the brick of Parmesan. He chose the face with the finest grate, raised the Parmesan to the steel.

"Vinnie?" Laura said. "You'd better come out here."

D'Agosta hesitated only a moment. Something in her tone made him drop everything on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.

She was standing in the front doorway of the apartment, speaking to a stranger. The man's face was in shadow, and he was dressed in an expensive trench coat. Something about him seemed familiar.

Then the man took a step forward, into the light. D'Agosta caught his breath.

"You!" he said.

The man bowed. "And you are Vincent D'Agosta."

Laura glanced back at him.
Who's he?
her expression read.

Slowly, D'Agosta released the breath. "Laura," he said, "I'd like you to meet Proctor. Agent Pendergast's chauffeur."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

Proctor bowed. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am."

She simply nodded in reply.

Proctor turned back to D'Agosta. "Now, sir, if you'd kindly come with me?"

"Where?" But already D'Agosta knew the answer.

"Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive."

D'Agosta licked his lips. "Why?"

"Because someone is waiting for you there. Someone who has requested your presence."

"Now?"

Proctor simply bowed again in reply.

THREE

D'Agosta sat in the backseat of the vintage '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, looking out the window but not really seeing anything. Proctor had taken him west through the park, and the big car was now rocketing up Broadway.

D'Agosta shifted in the white leather interior, barely able to contain his curiosity and impatience. He was tempted to pepper Proctor with questions, but he felt sure the chauffeur would not respond.

Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive.
The home-one of the homes- of Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast, D'Agosta's friend and partner in several unusual cases. The mysterious FBI agent whom D'Agosta knew, and yet did not know, who seemed to have as many lives as a cat...

Until that day not two months ago, when he'd seen Pendergast for the last time.

It had been on the steep flank of a hill south of Florence, Italy. The special agent had been below him, surrounded by a ravening pack of boar-hunting dogs, backed up by a dozen armed men. Pendergast had sacrificed himself so D'Agosta could get away.

And D'Agosta had let him do it.

D'Agosta stirred restlessly at the memory.
Someone who has requested your presence,
Proctor had said. Was it possible that, despite everything, Pendergast
had
somehow managed to escape? It wouldn't be the first time. He suppressed a surge of hope...

But no, it was not possible. He knew in his heart that Pendergast was dead.

Now the Rolls was cruising up Riverside Drive. D'Agosta shifted again, glancing out at the passing street signs: 125th Street, 130th. Very quickly, the well-tended neighborhood surrounding Columbia University gave way to dilapidated brownstones and decaying hulks. The usual loiterers had been chased indoors by the January chill, and in the dim light of evening the street looked deserted.

Up ahead now, just past 137th Street, D'Agosta could make out the boarded-up facade and widow's walk of Pendergast's mansion. The dark lines of the vast structure sent a chill through him.

The Rolls pulled past the gates of the spiked iron fence and stopped beneath the porte-cochere. Without waiting for Proctor, D'Agosta let himself out and stared up at the familiar lines of the rambling mansion, windows covered with tin, looking for all the world like the other abandoned mansions along the drive. Inside, it was home to wonders and secrets almost beyond belief. He felt his heart begin to race. Maybe Pendergast was inside, after all, in his usual black suit, sitting in the library before a blazing fire, the dancing flames casting strange shadows over his pale face. "My dear Vincent," he would say, "thank you for coming. May I interest you in a glass of Armagnac?"