Dance of Death (34 page)

A long silence.

"What does Diogenes look like?"

"Tall for his age, pale, with very short hair, eyes of two different colors. He is very thin and his lips are overly red."

"Those eyes, look into them. Is he looking at you?"

"No. He has turned his head away. He does not like to be stared at."

"Keep staring at him. Stare hard."

A longer silence. "I have averted my eyes."

"No. Remember, you control the scene. Keep staring."

"I don't choose to."

"Speak to your brother. Tell him to rise, that you wish to speak to him in private."

Another, longer silence. "Done."

"Tell him to come with you to the summerhouse."

"He refuses."

"He cannot refuse. You control him."

Even through the monitor, Glinn could see that a small sheen of sweat had appeared on Pendergast's brow.
It's beginning,
he thought.

"Tell Diogenes that there is a man waiting for him in the summerhouse who wants to ask you both some questions. A Dr. Krasner. Tell him that."

"Yes. He will come to see the doctor. He is curious that way."

"Excuse yourselves and walk to the summerhouse. Where I am waiting."

"All right."

A brief silence. "Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, what do you see?"

"We're inside. My brother is standing here, you're here, I'm here."

"Good. We shall remain standing. Now, I will ask you and your brother some questions. You will relay your brother's answers to my questions, since he cannot speak to me directly."

"If you insist," said Pendergast, a touch of irony returning to his voice.

"You
control the situation, Aloysius. Diogenes cannot evade answering, because it is you who is really answering for him. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Tell Diogenes to look at you. To
stare
at you."

"He won't."

"Make
him. With your mind, make him do it."

A silence. "All right."

"Diogenes, I am now speaking to you. What is your first memory of your older brother, Aloysius?"

"He said he remembers me drawing a picture."

"What is the picture?"

"Scribbles."

"How old are you, Diogenes?"

"He says six months."

"Ask Diogenes what he thinks of you."

"He thinks of me as the next Jackson Pollock."

That ironic tone again,
thought Glinn. This was one very resistant client.

"That would not normally be the thought of a six-month-old baby."

"Diogenes is answering as a ten-year-old, Dr. Krasner."

"Fine. Ask Diogenes to keep looking at you. What does he see?"

"He says nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing? He isn't speaking?"

"He spoke. He said the word
nothing."

"What do you mean by the word
nothing!"

"He says, 'I see nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.'
"

"Excuse me?"

"It's a quotation from Wallace Stevens," said Pendergast dryly. "Even at ten, Diogenes was partial to Stevens."

"Diogenes, when you say 'nothing,' does that mean you feel your brother, Aloysius, is a nonentity?"

"He laughs and says the words are yours, not his."

"Why?"

"He is laughing harder."

"How long will you be at Ravenscry, Diogenes?"

"He says until he goes back to school."

"And where is that?"

"St. Ignatius Loyola on Lafayette Street, New Orleans."

"How do you like school, Diogenes?"

"He says he likes it as much as you would like being shut up in a room with twenty-five mental defectives and a middle-aged hysteric."

"What is your favorite subject?"

"He says experimental biology ... on the playground."

"Now I want you, Aloysius, to ask Diogenes three questions, which he must answer. You must make him answer them. Remember, you are in control. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"What is your favorite food, Diogenes?"

"Wormwood and gall."

"I want a straight answer."

"That, Dr. Krasner, is the one thing you will never get from Diogenes," said Pendergast.

"Remember, Aloysius, that it is
you
who are actually answering the questions."

"And with great forbearance, I might add," said Pendergast. "I am doing all I can to suspend my disbelief."

Glinn leaned back in his wheelchair. This wasn't quite working. Clients resisted, some with every fiber of their being, but not quite like this. Irony was the ultimate resistance-he had never before seen it so skillfully employed. And yet Glinn felt a shiver of self-recognition: Pendergast was a man who was hyperaware of himself, unable ever to step outside of himself, to let go, to lower, even for an instant, the elaborate defensive mask he had created to place between himself and the world.

Glinn could understand a man like that.

"All right. Aloysius, you are still in the summerhouse with Diogenes. Imagine you have a loaded pistol in your hand."

"Fine."

Glinn sat up, a little startled. Krasner was already moving to what they termed phase two-and very abruptly. Clearly, he, too, realized this session needed to be jump-started.

"What kind of pistol is it?"

"It's a gun from my collection, a Signature Grade 1911 .45 ACP by Hilton Yam."

"Give
it to him."

"It would be most unwise to give a pistol to a ten-year-old, don't you think?" Again, that ironic, amused tone.

"Nevertheless, do it."

"Done."

"Tell him to point the gun at you and pull the trigger."

"Done."

"What happened?"

"He's laughing uproariously. He didn't pull the trigger."

"Why not?"

"He says it's too soon."

"Does he intend to kill you?"

"Naturally. But he wants..." His voice trailed off.

Krasner pounced. "What does he want?"

"To play with me for a while."

"What kind of play?"

"He says he wants to pull off my wings and watch what happens. I am his ultimate insect."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Ask him."

"He's laughing."

"Grab him and demand an answer."

"I would prefer not to touch him."

"Grab him.
Get physical. Force him to answer."

"He's still laughing."

"Hit him."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Hit him."

"I won't carry on with this charade."

"Take the gun away from him."

"He's dropped the gun, but-"

"Pick it up."

"All right."

"Shoot him. Kill him."

"This is utterly absurd-"

"Kill him. Do it. You've killed before; you know how to do it. You
can
and you
must
do it."

A long silence.

"Did you do it?"

"This is an asinine exercise, Dr. Krasner."

"But you
did
imagine it. Didn't you?
You imagined killing him."

"I imagined no such thing."

"Yes, you did. You killed him. You imagined it. And now you are imagining his dead body on the ground. You see it because you cannot
help
but see it."

"This is..." Pendergast's voice trailed of.

"You see it, you can't
help
but see it. Because I am telling you to, you are seeing it... But wait-he's not yet dead ... He moves, he still lives ... He wants to say something. With his last dying strength, he beckons you closer, says something to you.
What did he just say?"

A long silence. Then Pendergast answered dryly,
"Qualis artifex pereo."

Glinn winced. He recognized the quotation but could see that Krasner did not. What should have been a breaking point for Pendergast had suddenly turned into an intellectual game.

"What does that mean?"

"It's Latin."

"I repeat: what does it mean?"

"It means 'O, what an artist dies with me!'"

"Why did he say that?"

"Those were Nero's last words. I believe Diogenes was speaking facetiously."

"You have killed your brother, Aloysius, and now look on his body."

An irritated sigh.

"This is the second time you have done it."

"The second time?"

"You killed him once before, years ago."

"Pardon me?"

"Yes, you did. You killed whatever goodness was in him; you left him a hollow shell filled with malice and hatred. You did something to him that murdered his very soul!"

Despite himself, Glinn found he was holding his breath. The gentle, soothing tones were long gone: Dr. Krasner had slipped into phase three, once again with unusual swiftness.

"I did no such thing. He was born that way, empty and cruel."

"No.
You. killed his goodness!
There is no other possible answer.

Don't you see, Aloysius? The hatred Diogenes feels for you is mythological in its immensity. It cannot have sprung from nothing; energy can neither be created nor destroyed.
You
created that hatred,
you
did something to him that struck out his heart. All these years, you have repressed this terrible deed. And now
you
have killed him again, literally as well as figuratively. What
you
must face, Aloysius, is that you are the author of your own fate.
You
are at fault.
You did it."

Another long silence. Pendergast lay on the couch, unmoving, his skin gray, waxlike.

"Now Diogenes is rising. He is looking at you again. I want you to ask him something."

"What?"

"Ask Diogenes what you did to him to make him hate you so."

"Done."

"His answer?"

"Another laugh. He said, 'I hate you because you are you.'"

"Ask again."

"He says that is reason enough, that his hatred has nothing to do with anything I did, it simply exists, like the sun, moon, and stars."

"No, no,
no.
What is it that you did, Aloysius?" Krasner's voice was once again gentle, but it had great urgency. "Unburden yourself of it. How terrible it must be to carry that weight on your shoulders. Unburden yourself."

Slowly, Pendergast arose from the couch, swinging his legs over the side. For a moment, he sat motionless. Then he passed a hand across his forehead, looked at his watch. "It is midnight. It is now January 28, and I am out of time. I can't be bothered with this exercise anymore."

He stood and turned to Dr. Krasner. "I commend you on your valiant effort, Doctor. Trust me, there's nothing in my past that would justify Diogenes's conduct. In the course of my career studying the criminal mind, I have come to realize a simple truth: some people are born monsters. You can elucidate their motives and reconstruct their crimes-but you cannot explain the evil within them."

Krasner looked at him, great sadness in his face. "There's where you're wrong, my friend. Nobody is born evil."

Pendergast held out his hand. "We shall differ, then." Then his eyes turned directly toward the hidden camera, startling Glinn. How could Pendergast know where it was?

"Mr. Glinn? I thank you, too, for your effort. You should have plenty in that folder to complete the job at hand. I can help you no further. Something terrible will happen today, and I must do everything in my power to stop it."

And he turned and walked briskly from the room.

FORTY-TWO

The mansion at 891 Riverside Drive lay above one of the most complex geological areas of Manhattan. Here, beneath the litter-strewn streets, the bedrock of Hartland schist yielded to a different formation, the Cambrian Manhattan. The gneiss of the Manhattan Formation was particularly faulted and contorted, and riddled with weak areas, cracks, and natural tunnels. One such weak area, several centuries ago, had been enlarged to form the passage from the mansion's sub-basement to the weed-choked shore of the Hudson River. But there were other tunnels, older and more secret, that burrowed beneath the mansion into dark and unknown depths.

Unknown to all, that is, but one.

Constance Greene moved slowly through one of these tunnels, descending with practiced ease into the blackness. Though she held a torch in one slim hand, it was not lit: she knew these deep and hidden spaces so well that light was not necessary. The passage was frequently narrow enough to allow her to follow both walls with her outstretched hands. Though the tunnel was of natural rock, the ceiling was tall and quite regular, and the floor was even enough to appear almost like steps fashioned by man.