Dance of Death (24 page)

"Why do you say that?"

"The bizarre mode of death, the prominence of the victim, the fact that the killer seems to have escaped all detection-it's a super story. I
can't
let it go."

"Can you be more specific?"

"The details aren't important. I need to get out of here."

"The details are always important."

Smithback's feeling of encouragement began to evaporate. "It isn't just my job. There's my wife. Nora. She thinks I'm in Atlantic City undercover, working another story, but I'm sure she's worried about me. If I could just get out and call her, let her know I'm all right. We've only been married a few months. Surely, you understand."

"I certainly do." The director was listening with utmost sympathy and attention.

Smithback, encouraged anew, went on. "This supposed killer who's after me, I'm not concerned about him. I can look out for myself. I don't need to hide up here any longer, pretending to be some nutcase."

Dr. Tisander nodded again.

"So, anyway, that's it. Even though I was placed in here with the best of intentions, the fact is, I can't stay a moment longer." He rose. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to call for a car? I'm sure that Agent Pendergast will cover the cost. Or I'll be happy to send you a check once I get back to New York. He took away my wallet and credit cards on the way up here." He remained standing.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then the director sat forward slowly, leaned his arms on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. "Now, Edward," he began in his calm, kindly voice, "as you know-"

"And no more of this Edward business," Smithback interrupted with a flare of irritation. "The name's Smithback. William Smithback Jr."

"Please allow me to continue." A pause, another sympathetic smile. "I'm afraid I cannot accede to your request."

"This isn't a request: it's a demand. I'm telling you, I'm leaving. You can't keep me here against my will."

Tisander cleared his throat patiently. "Your care has been entrusted to us. Your family has signed papers to that effect. You've been committed here for a period of observation and treatment. We're here to help you, and to do that, we need time."

Smithback stared incredulously. "Excuse me, Dr. Tisander, but do you think we could dispense with the cover?"

"What cover might that be, Edward?"

"I'm not Edward!
Jesus. I know what you've been told, and there's no need for this pretense any longer. I need to get back to my job, to my wife, to my
life.
I tell you, I'm not worried about any killer. I'm leaving here. Now."

Dr. Tisander's face retained its kindly, patient smile. "You are here, Edward, because you are ill. All this talk of a job with the
New York Times,
about a cover story, about being hunted by a killer-that's what we're here to help you with."

"What?" Smithback spluttered again.

"As I said, we know a great deal about you. I have a file two feet thick. The only way for you to get better is to face the truth, to abandon these delusions and fantasies, this dreamworld you inhabit. You've never had a job at the
Times
or anyplace else. You're not married. There's no killer after you."

Smithback slowly sank back into his chair, holding on to the arms for support. A terrible chill came over him. Pendergast's words on the drive up from New York City returned to him, pregnant with ominous new meaning:
The director knows all about you. He's fully informed, he has all the necessary documents.
Smithback realized that, despite what he'd assumed-despite what Pendergast implied-the director was
not
in on the deception. The "necessary documents" were probably legal papers of commitment. The full scope of Pendergast's plan to protect him lay suddenly revealed. He couldn't leave even if he wanted to. And everything he said-all his protestations and denials and talk of a killer-only confirmed what the director had learned from reading his case files: that he was delusional. He swallowed, tried to sound as reasonable and sane as possible.

"Dr. Tisander, let me explain. The man who brought me up here, Special Agent Pendergast? He gave me a false identity, put me here in order to protect me from a killer. All those papers you have are forged. It's all a ruse. If you don't believe me, call the
New York Times.

Ask them to fax up a picture of me, a description. You'll see that I'm William Smithback. Edward Jones doesn't exist."

He stopped, realizing how crazy it must all sound. Dr. Tisander was still listening to him, smiling, giving him his full attention-but now Smithback recognized the nuances of that expression. It was pity, mixed perhaps with a faint expression of that relief with which the sane view the insane. That same expression had no doubt been on his own face at dinner last night as he listened to Throckmorton talk about a business meeting with God.

"Look," he began again. "Surely, you've heard of me, read my books. I've written three best-selling novels:
Relic, Reliquary,
and
Thunderhead.
If you have them in your library, you can see for yourself. My picture's on the back of all three."

"So now you're a best-selling author as well?" Dr. Tisander allowed his smile to widen slightly. "We don't stock our library with best sellers. They pander to the lowest common denominator of reader and-worse-tend to overexcite our guests."

Smithback swallowed, tried to make himself sound the soul of sanity and reason. "Dr. Tisander, I understand that I must sound crazy to you. If you would please allow me to make one call with that phone on your desk-just one-I'll show you otherwise. I'll talk to my wife or my editor at the
Times.
Either one will immediately confirm I'm Bill Smithback. Just one call-that's all I ask."

"Thank you, Edward," said Tisander, rising. "I can see you'll have a lot to discuss with your therapist at your next session. I have to get back to work."

"Damn you,
make the call!"
Smithback exploded, leaping to his feet and lunging for the phone. Tisander jumped back with amazing quickness, and Smithback felt his arms seized from behind by the two orderlies.

He struggled. "I'm not crazy! You cretin, can't you tell I'm as sane as you are? Make the frigging call!"

"You'll feel better once you're back in your room, Edward," the director said, settling back in his chair, composure returning. "We will speak again soon. Please don't be discouraged; it's often difficult to transition to a new situation. I want you to know that we're here to help."

"No!" Smithback cried. "This is ridiculous! This is a
travesty!
You can't do this to me-"

Howling in protest, Smithback was gently-but firmly-escorted from the office.

TWENTY-NINE

while Margo was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Nora took a moment to look around the woman's unexpectedly large and elegant apartment. An upright piano stood against one wall, with some Broadway show tunes propped up on the music stand; next to it hung a number of nineteenth-century zoological engravings of odd animals. A set of shelves against one wall was packed with books, and a second set of shelves contained an assortment of interesting objects: Roman coins, an Egyptian glass perfume bottle, a small collection of bird's eggs, arrowheads, an Indian pot, a piece of gnarled driftwood, a fossilized crab, seashells, a couple of bird skulls, some mineral specimens, and a gold nugget-a miniature cabinet of curiosities. Hanging on the far wall was what Nora recognized as an exceptionally fine Eyedazzler Navajo rug.

It said something about Margo, Nora thought-that she was a more interesting person than she first appeared. And she had a lot more money than Nora had expected. This was no cheap apartment, and in a co-op building, no less.

Margo's voice echoed out of the kitchen. "Sorry to abandon you, Nora. I'll just be another minute."

"Can't I help?"

"No way, you relax. Red or white?"

"I'll drink whatever you're drinking."

"White, then. We're having fish."

Nora had already been savoring the smell of salmon poaching in a delicate court bouillon wafting from the kitchen. A moment later, Margo came in carrying a platter with a beautiful piece of fish, garnished with dill and slices of lemon. She set it down, returned to the kitchen, and came back with a cool bottle of wine. She filled Nora's glass and then her own, then sat down.

"This is quite a dinner," said Nora, impressed not only with the cooking but with the trouble Margo had gone to.

"I just thought, with Bill away on assignment and the show coming up, maybe you needed a break."

"I do, but I didn't expect anything quite this nice."

"I like to cook, but I rarely have the opportunity-just like I never seem to have time to meet guys." She sat down with a wry smile, brushing her short brown hair from her face with a quick gesture. "So how's the show going?"

"This is the first night in a week that I've gotten out of there before midnight."

"Ouch."

"We're down to the wire. I don't see how they're going to make it, but everyone who's been through this before swears they always pull through in the end."

"I know how that goes. I have to get back to the museum tonight as it is."

"Really?"

Margo nodded. "To put the next issue of
Museology
to bed."

"My God, Margo. Then you shouldn't be wasting time making me supper."

"Are you kidding? I had to get out of that dusty old heap, even if only for a few hours. Believe me, this is a treat for me as well." She cut a piece of salmon and served Nora, then served herself, adding some spears of perfectly cooked asparagus and some wild rice.

Nora watched her arrange the food, wondering how she could have been so wrong about a person. It was true Margo had come on rather strong in their first few encounters, brittle and defensive, but outside of the museum she seemed a different person, with a largeness of spirit that surprised Nora. Margo was trying hard to make up for her nasty comment in the staff meeting, going beyond the generous apology she had already made to treat Nora to a home-cooked dinner.

"By the way, I just wanted you to know that I'm going ahead with that editorial. It may be a lost cause, but it's just something I feel I have to do."

Nora felt a sense of admiration. Even with Menzies's support, it was a gutsy move. She herself had gone up against the museum administration, and it was no cakewalk-some of them could be extremely vindictive.

"That's awfully brave of you."

"Well, I don't know about bravery. It's sheer stupidity, really, I said I was going to do it, and now I feel like I
have
to, even though the trustees have already ruled against me."

"And your first issue, too."

"First and perhaps last."

"I meant what I said earlier. Even though I don't agree with you, I support your right to publish. You can count on me. I think everyone in the department would agree, except maybe Ashton."

Margo smiled. "I know. And I really appreciate that, Nora."

Nora sipped the wine. She glanced at the label: a Vermentino, and a very good one. Bill, an inveterate wine snob, had taught her a lot over the last year or two.

"It's tough being a woman in the museum," she said. "While things are a lot better than they used to be, you still don't see a lot of female deans or departmental heads. And if you look at the board of trustees, well, it's basically made up of socially ambitious lawyers and investment bankers, two-thirds of them male, with little real interest in science or public education."

"It's discouraging that a top museum like this can't do better."

"It's the way of the world." Nora took a bite of the salmon. It was good, just about the best she'd tasted.

"So tell me, Nora, how did you and Bill meet? I knew him at the museum back when I was still a student. He didn't seem like the marrying sort. I was fond of him, despite everything-though I'd never let him know that. He was quite a character."

"Fond
of him? When I first saw him, I thought he was the biggest jerk I'd ever met." She smiled at the memory. "He was in a limo, signing books in the god-awful town of Page, Arizona."

Margo laughed. "I can just see it. Funny, he tends to make a bad first impression, until you realize he's got a heart of gold ... and the courage of a lion to match."

Nora nodded slowly, a little surprised at this insight. "It took me a while to figure that out, though, to cut through his 'intrepid reporter' pose. We're very different, Bill and I, but I think that helps in a marriage. I couldn't stand being married to someone like me-I'm way too bossy."

"Me, too," said Margo. "What were you doing in Page, Arizona?"

"That's a story. I was leading an archaeological expedition into the canyon country of Utah, and Page was our rendezvous point."

"Sounds fascinating."

"It was. Too fascinating, as it turned out. Afterwards I took a job at the Lloyd Museum."

"No kidding! So you were there when it folded?"

"It more or less folded even before it opened. Palmer Lloyd supposedly went off the deep end. But by that point I'd burned my bridges, and the upshot was I was out of work again. So I landed a job here."