D'Agosta took a deep breath. "Have you looked into the possibility I mentioned at the diner? That Pendergast's brother might be behind these murders?"

Hayward paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "There's so little evidence to support that theory that it verges on crank. You know I'm a professional. You have to trust me to conduct this case in the best way possible. I'll look into it when I have time."

There was nothing D'Agosta could say to this. They ate for a moment in silence.

"Vinnie," she said, and something in her tone made him look up at her again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's all right."

She was smiling again, and her dark eyes shone in the artificial light. "Because the fact is, I'm really happy you're back on the job."

D'Agosta swallowed. "Thanks."

"This crazy posthumous case of Pendergast's has just been a distraction for you at the worst possible time. He may have been a productive agent, but he wasn't-well, normal. I know you were a friend of his, but I think-" She paused. "I think he had an unhealthy influence on you. And then, this request from beyond the grave, all this stuff about his brother… I have to tell you, I resent that."

Despite everything, D'Agosta felt a stab of irritation. "I know you never liked the guy. But he got results."

"I know, I know. I shouldn't criticize the dead. Sorry."

The irritation was swept away by a sudden flood of guilt. D'Agosta said nothing.

"Anyway, all that's past. The Dangler case is high-profile, a great starter case. You're going to shine, Vinnie, I know you are. It'll be just like old times."

D'Agosta cut into a chicken thigh, then dropped his knife on the plate with a clatter. This was agony. He couldn't put it off any longer.

"Laura," he began. "There's no easy way to say this."

"Say what?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm moving out."

She froze, as if uncomprehending. Then a look slowly crept over her face: a look of disbelief and pain, like a child who had just been unexpectedly struck by a beloved parent. Seeing that expression, D'Agosta felt just about as bad as he'd ever felt in his life.

"Vinnie?" she asked, dazed.

D'Agosta lowered his eyes. There was a long, excruciating silence.

"Why?"

He didn't know what to say. He knew only that the one thing he could not do was tell her the truth. Laura, honey, I may be in danger. You're not a target, but I definitely am. And by staying here, I could put you in danger, as well.

"Is it something I've done? Something I haven't done?"

"No," he said immediately. He had to make up something, and with Laura Hayward, that something had better be good.

"No," he said again, more slowly. "You've been great. It has nothing to do with you. I really care about you. It has to do with me. Our relationship… maybe we started off just a little too fast."

Hayward did not reply.

D'Agosta felt like he was walking himself off a cliff. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to stay with this woman- this beautiful, caring, supportive woman. He'd rather hurt himself than her. And yet he was hurting her, hurting her deeply, with every word. It was an awful thing to do, but he had no choice. Vincent, you must take every precaution possible. D'Agosta knew that the only way to save this relationship-and, perhaps, Laura Hayward's life-was by interrupting it.

"I just need a little space, that's all," he went on. "To think things through. Get some perspective on my life." The platitudes sounded hollow, and rather than continue, he stopped short.

He sat there, waiting for Hayward to blow up, curse him out, order him to leave. Yet there was only another long, awful silence. Finally, he looked up. Laura was sitting there, hands in her lap, dinner growing cold, her face pale and her eyes cast downward. Her beautiful blue-black hair had fallen forward, covering one eye. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected. This surprise, this hurt, was even worse than anger.

At last, she sniffed, rubbed a finger beneath her nose, pushed away her plate. Then she rose.

"I've got to get back to work," she said, so quietly D'Agosta barely heard her. He sat motionless as she brushed her hair away from her face. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door. It wasn't until her hand was on the doorknob that she stopped, realizing she'd forgotten her coat and her briefcase. She turned, walked slowly to the closet, shrugged into her coat, picked up the case. And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not look back.

D'Agosta sat at the dinner table for a long time, listening to the tick of the clock, to the faint street noises filtering up from below. Finally, he stood, brought the dishes into the little kitchen, threw the half-eaten dinners into the garbage, and washed up.

Then he turned and-feeling very old-headed for the bedroom to pack.

AT three o'clock in the morning, the boarded-up Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive looked asleep, perhaps even dead. But deep below the shuttered windows and double-locked doors, activity flickered in one of the basement tunnels cut into the Manhattan bedrock beneath the old house. The longest tunnel-actually a series of connected basement rooms-lay in a line due west, drilling beneath Riverside Drive and Riverside Park toward the Hudson River. At the end, a crude staircase spiraled down a natural cavity to a stone quay, where a watery tunnel led out past a small, weed-draped opening onto the river itself. More than two centuries before, the river pirate who owned the mansion's earlier incarnation had used this secret passage on nocturnal errands of mischief. Today, only a handful of people knew of the hidden entrance.

In this isolated spot, the soft lapping of oars could be heard. There was a faint plash as the green veil of weeds was lifted aside, exposing an underwater passage. It was a foggy, moonless night, and only the palest glint of light outlined a skiff as it entered the tunnel. Noiselessly, it slid forward beneath a low, rocky ceiling, easing up at last to the stone quay.

Pendergast stepped out of the skiff, tethered it to a cleat, and looked around, eyes glinting in the darkness. He remained still for several minutes, listening. Then he pulled a flashlight from his pocket, snapped it on, and headed up the staircase. At the top, he stepped out into a large room filled with wooden cases displaying weapons and armor, some modern, others dating back two thousand years. He passed through the room and into an old laboratory, beakers and retorts gleaming on long black-topped tables.

In one corner of the laboratory stood a silent, shadowy figure.

Pendergast came forward cautiously, one hand stealing toward his weapon. "Proctor?"

"Sir?"

Pendergast relaxed. "I got the signal from Constance."

"And I, in turn, got your message to meet here. But I must say I'm surprised to see you in person, sir."

"I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But as it happens, there's a message that I, in turn, must deliver to Constance, and it's one I felt had to be delivered in person."

Proctor nodded. "I understand, sir."

"From now on, it is vital that you keep a close eye on her. You know Constance, how fragile her mental condition is. How she appears on the surface is no indication at all of her true emotional state. You also know that she's been through what no other human being has. I fear that, if she is not treated with exceptional care and caution…"