Dance of Death Read Free Page B

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?"
    D'Agosta waited as Proctor unlocked, then opened, the heavy door. Pale yellow light streamed out onto the worn brickwork. He stepped forward while Proctor carefully relocked the door behind him. He felt his heart beat still faster. Just being back inside the mansion sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through him: excitement, anxiety, regret.
    Proctor turned toward him. "This way, sir, if you please."
    The chauffeur led the way down the length of the gallery and into the blue-domed reception hall. Here, dozens of rippled-glass cabinets displayed an array of fabulous specimens: meteorites, gems, fossils, butterflies. D'Agosta's eyes stole across the parquet floor to the far side, where the double doors of the library lay open. If Pendergastwas waiting for him, that's where he'd be: sitting in a wing chair, a half-smile playing across his lips, enjoying the effect of this little drama on his friend.
    Proctor ushered D'Agosta toward the library. Heart pounding, he stepped through the doors and into the sumptuous room.
    The smell of the place was as he remembered it: leather, buckram, a faint hint of woodsmoke. But today there was no fire crackling merrily on the hearth. The room was cold. The inlaid bookshelves, full of leather-bound volumes tooled in gold, were dim and indistinct. Only a single lamp glowed-a Tiffany piece standing on a side table-casting a small pool of light in a vast lake of darkness.
    After a moment, D'Agosta made out a form standing beside the table, just outside the circle of light. As he watched, the form advanced toward him across the carpeting. He recognized immediately the young girl as Constance Greene, Pendergast's ward and assistant. She was perhaps twenty,