"The person to help you is Lieutenant D'Agosta. He knows all there is to know about the case, and you could do no better than use his expertise."

"You know that's impossible. Lieutenant D'Agosta's on modified duty. He can't help anyone at the moment."

"Nothing is impossible. You just need to learn how to bend the rules."

Hayward sighed irritatedly.

"I have a question for you," Pendergast said. "Does Agent Coffey know about the reappearance of Margo Green?"

"No, but I doubt he'd care much. As I said, they're one hundred percent focused on Decker."

"Good. I would ask you to keep that information quiet as long as possible. I believe Margo Green is safe from Diogenes, at least in the short term. My brother has gone to ground and will be licking his wounds for a while, but when he emerges, he will be more dangerous than ever. I ask that you keep a protective eye over Dr. Green during the rest of her convalescence. The same goes for William Smithback and his wife, Nora. And yourself. You're all potential targets, I'm afraid."

Hayward gave a shudder. What had seemed like an insane fantasy just two days ago now was beginning to look chillingly real.

"I'll do that," she said.

"Thank you."

Another silence settled over the cell. After a moment, Hayward roused herself.

"Well, I'd better be going. I really just came as an escort for someone else who wants to see you."

"Captain?" Pendergast said. "A final word."

She turned to face him again. He stood there, pale in the artificial light, his cool gaze resting upon her.

"Please don't be too hard on Vincent."

Despite herself, Hayward looked away quickly.

"What he did, he did at my request. The reason he told you so little, the reason he moved out-those actions were to keep you safe from my brother. In order to help me, to protect lives, he made a grave professional sacrifice-I hope and pray the sacrifice won't be a personal one, as well."

Hayward did not reply.

"That's all. Good-bye, Captain."

Hayward found her voice. "Good-bye, Agent Pendergast."

Then, still without making eye contact, she turned away once more and rapped on the safety glass of the observation port.

Pendergast watched the door close behind Hayward. He stood motionless, in the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, listening. He heard a few muffled voices outside the padded door, and then focused on the light but determined stride of Hayward as she made for the ward'sexit. He heard the security locks disengage, heard the heavy door boom open. It remained so for almost thirty seconds before closing and locking again.

Still, Pendergast listened, even more intently. Because now another, different set of footsteps was sounding in the corridor outside: slower, tentative. They were growing closer. As he listened, his frame tensed. A moment later, there was a rude banging on his door again.

"Visitor!"

Then Viola Maskelene appeared in the doorway.

She had a scratch over one eye, and beneath her Mediterranean tan she seemed pale, but otherwise she appeared unhurt.

Pendergast found he could not move. He simply stood and looked at her.

She stepped forward, stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room. The door closed behind her.

Still, Pendergast did not move.

Viola's eyes fell from his face to his prison garb.

"I wish, for your sake, that you'd never met me," he said almost coldly.

"What about for your sake?"

He looked at her a long time, and then said, more quietly: "I'll never regret meeting you. But as long as you have feelings for me- if that is indeed the case-then you'll be in grave danger. You must go away and never see or think of me again."

He paused, then cast his eyes to the floor. "I'm deeply, deeply sorry for everything."

There was a long silence.

"Is that it?" Viola finally asked in a low voice. "We'll never know, never have the chance to find out?"

"Never. Diogenes is still out there. If he thinks there's any connection remaining between us, anything at all, he'll kill you. You must leave immediately, go back to Capraia, get on with your life, tell everyone-including your own heart-how utterly indifferent you are to me."

"And what about you?"

"I'll know you're alive. That's enough."

She took a fierce step forward. "I don't want to "get on' with my life. Not anymore." She hesitated, then raised her arms and rested her hands on his shoulders. "Not after meeting you."

Pendergast remained as still as a statue.

"You must leave me behind," he said quietly. "Diogenes will be back. And I won't be able to protect you."

"He… said terrible things to me," she said, her voice faltering. "It's been thirty-six hours since I walked out of that railroad tunnel, and in all those hours I haven't been able to think of anything else. I've led a stupid, wasted, loveless life. And now you're telling me to walk away from the only thing that means anything to me."

Pendergast put his arms gently around her waist, looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Diogenes makes it a game to find out a person's deepest fears. Then he strikes a deadly, well-aimed blow. He's driven people to suicide that way. But his words are hollow. Don't let those words stalk you. To know Diogenes is to walk in darkness. You must walk out of that darkness, Viola. Back into the light. And that also means away from me."

"No," she murmured.

"Go back to your island and forget about me. If not for your own sake, Viola, then for mine."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Then, in the harsh light of the squalid cell, they kissed.

After a moment, Pendergast disengaged himself and stepped back. His face was uncharacteristically flushed; his pale eyes glittered.

"Good-bye, Viola," he said.

Viola stood as if rooted to the ground. A minute passed. Then, with infinite reluctance, she turned and walked slowly to the door.

At the door, she hesitated and, without turning, began to speak in a low voice.

"I'll do as you say. I'll go back to my island. I'll tell everyone I could not care less about you. I'll live my life. And when you're finally free, you'll know where to find me."

She gave a quick rap on the observation port, the door opened- and she was gone.

epilogue

The fire died on the grate, leaving a crumbling stack of coals. The light in the library was dim, and the usual cloak of silence lay over all: the baize-covered reading tables neatly stacked with books, the walls of slumbering volumes, the shaded lamps and leather chairs. Outside, it was a bright winter day, the last day of January, but within 891 Riverside it seemed to be perpetual night.

Constance sat in one chair, wearing a black petticoat with white lace trimming, legs tucked up beneath her, reading an eighteenth-century treatise on the benefits of bloodletting. D'Agosta sat in a wing chair nearby. A can of Budweiser sat on a silver tray on a table beside him, unconsumed, in a puddle of its own condensation.

D'Agosta glanced over at Constance, at her perfect profile, her straight brown hair. That she was a beautiful young woman, there was no doubt; that she was unusually, even uncannily, intelligent and well read for someone her age went without saying. But there was something strange about her-very, very strange. She'd had no emotional reaction at all to the news of Pendergast's arrest and incarceration. None.

In D'Agosta's experience, that kind of nonreaction was often the strongest reaction of all. It worried him. Pendergast had warned him of Constance's current fragility and had hinted of dark things in her past. D'Agosta had long had his own doubts about Constance's stability, and this inexplicable lack of reaction only made him wonder the more. It was partly to watch over her, now that Pendergast was gone, that had brought him and his few belongings back to 891 the day before-that and the fact he had no place else to go.