"Yeah. And how much J.D. had you had before this?"

"None. It's like I told you, this place is-"

Smithback, who'd been edging closer and closer to the edge of the corridor, overbalanced and stumbled forward into the landing. The two men-orderlies in somber black uniforms-abruptly drew apart, their expressions dissolving into emotionless masks.

"May we help you, Mr.-Mr. Jones?" one of them said.

"No, thanks. Just on my way down to the dining room." Smithback made his way down the broad staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.

The dining room was a grand space on the second floor that reminded Smithback of a Park Avenue men's club. There were at least thirty tables within, but the room was so big it could have held dozens more comfortably. Each was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth and arrayed with gleaming-and extremely dull-silverware. Brilliant chandeliers hung from a Wedgwood-blue ceiling. Despite the elegant room, it seemed barbaric to eat dinner at 5 p.m. Guests were already seated at some of the tables, eating methodically, chatting quietly, or staring moodily at nothing. Others were shuffling slowly to their seats.

Oh, God, Smithback thought. The dinner of the living dead. He looked around.

"Mr. Jones?" An orderly came over, as obsequious as any maître d', with the same smirk of superiority behind the mask of servility. "Where would you care to sit?"

"I'll try that table," he said, pointing to one currently occupied by only one young man, who was buttering a dinner roll. He was flawlessly attired-expensive suit, snowy white shirt, gleaming shoes- and he looked the most normal of the bunch. He nodded to Smithback as the journalist sat down.

"Roger Throckmorton," the man said, rising. "Delighted to meet you."

"Edward Jones," Smithback replied, gratified at the cordial reception. He accepted the menu from the waiter and, despite himself, grew quickly absorbed in the long list of offerings. He finally settled on not one, but two main courses-plaice à la Mornay and rack of spring lamb-along with an arugula salad and plover eggs in aspic. He marked his choices on the card beside his place setting, handed the card and the menu to the waiter, then turned once again toward Mr. Throckmorton. He was about Smithback's age, strikingly good-looking, with blond hair carefully parted, and smelling faintly of expensive aftershave. Something about him reminded Smithback of Bryce Harriman; he had that same air of old money and entitlement.

Bryce Harriman…

With a mighty effort, Smithback drove the image from his mind. He caught the eye of the man across the table. "So," he said, "what brings you here?" He realized only after asking the question how inappropriate it was.

But the man didn't seem to take it amiss. "Probably the same as you. I'm crazy." And then he chuckled to show he was kidding. "Seriously, I got in a bit of a scrape, and my father sent me up here for a short, ah, rest. Nothing serious."

"How long have you been here?"

"Couple of months. And what brings you here?"

"Same. Rest." Smithback cast around for a way to redirect the conversation. What do lunatics talk about, anyway? He reminded himself the extreme nutcases were kept in the quiet ward, located in another wing. Guests here, in the main section of the mansion, were simply "troubled."

Throckmorton placed his dinner roll on a plate, dabbed primly at his mouth with a napkin. "You just arrived today, didn't you?"

"That's right."

The waiter brought their drinks-tea for Throckmorton, a tomato juice for Smithback, who was annoyed he couldn't get his usual single-malt Scotch. His eye stole once again around the room. Everybody in the place moved so sluggishly, spoke so softly: it all seemed like a banquet in slow motion. Jesus, I don't think I can take much more of this. He tried to remind himself of what Pendergast had said-how he was the target of a murderer, how being here not only kept him safe, but Nora as well-yet already, even after a single day, it was getting hard to bear. Why would a dangerous killer be after him? It made no sense. For all he knew, that Mercedes, that bullet, had been meant for Pendergast, not him. Besides, Smithback knew how to handle himself. He'd been in rough situations before-some of them really rough…

Once again, he forced his thoughts back to his dinner companion.

"So what do you… think of the place?" he asked a little lamely.

"Oh, not a bad old pile, actually." There was an amused gleam in the man's eye as he spoke that made Smithback think he might have found an ally.

"You don't get tired of all this? Of not getting out?"

"It was much nicer in the fall, of course. The grounds are spectacular. The snow is a bit confining, I'll admit, but what's there to 'get out' to, anyway?"

Smithback digested this a moment.

"So what do you do, Edward?" Throckmorton asked. "For a living."

Smithback mentally reviewed Pendergast's briefing. "My father's an investment banker. Wall Street. I work for his firm."

"My family's on Wall Street, too."

A lightbulb went on in Smithback's head. "You're not that Throckmorton, are you?"

The man across the table smiled. "I'm afraid so. At least, one of them. We're a rather large family."

The waiter returned with their entrées-brook trout for Throckmorton, the twin dishes of plaice and lamb for Smithback. Throckmorton looked over at Smithback's heaping portions. "I hate to see a man with no appetite," he said.

Smithback laughed. This fellow wasn't crazy at all. "I never pass up a free meal."

He raised his knife and fork and tucked into the plaice. He began to feel ever so slightly better. The food was superb. And this Roger Throckmorton seemed a decent enough guy. River Oaks might just be bearable for another day or two if he had somebody to talk to. Of course, he'd have to be careful not to blow his cover.

"What do people here do all day?" he mumbled through a mouthful of fish.

"I'm sorry?"

Smithback swallowed. "How do you pass the time?"

Throckmorton chuckled. "I keep a journal and write poetry. I try to keep up with the market, in a desultory kind of way. In good weather, I like to stroll the grounds."

Smithback nodded, speared another piece of fish. "And the evenings?"

"Well, they have billiard tables in the first-floor salon, and games of bridge and whist in the library. And there's chess-that's fun when I can find a partner. But a lot of the time I just read. Recently, I've been reading a lot of poetry. Last night, for example, I began The Canterbury Tales."

Smithback nodded his approval. "My favorite bit is 'The Miller's Tale.' "

"I think mine is the General Prologue. It's full of so much hope for renewal, for rebirth." Throckmorton sat back in his chair and quoted the opening lines. "Whan that April with his showres soote / The droughte of March hath perced to the roote."

Smithback cast his memory back over the prologue, managed to dredge up a few lines. "Or how about this: Bifel that in that seson on a day, / In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay-"

"Fishing, with the arid plain behind me."

It took Smithback, who had turned his attention to the lamb, a moment to register this change. "Wait a minute. That's not Chaucer, that's-"

"Out, out, brief candle!" Throckmorton sat up very stiff, almost as if at attention.