“That’s no concern of-”

“We are conducting a debriefing related to said escape. You are interrupting. If you will sit down and await your turn to speak, we will continue.”

Coffey remained standing, looking at him, face turning red. “I don’t appreciate being addressed in that tone of voice.”

“Agent Coffey, I am asking you one more time to sit down and allow this debriefing to continue. If you continue to speak out of turn, I will have you removed from the premises.”

A thunderstruck silence ensued. Coffey’s face contorted with fury and he turned to Rabiner. “You know what? I think our presence at this meeting is no longer required.” He swiveled back to Imhof. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

“Your presence certainly is required. I have two guards here who say you gave them orders and threatened them with termination if they didn’t obey-despite the fact that you have absolutely no authority here. As a result, prisoners were left unattended and attempted escape. You, sir, are responsible for the escape attempt. I make this statement for the record.”

Another electric silence. Coffey looked around, the imperious look on his face softening as he began to absorb the seriousness of the accusation. His eyes locked on the tape recorder in the middle of the table, the microphones in front of each seat.

Stiffly Coffey sat down, swallowed. “I’m sure we can straighten out this, ah, misunderstanding, Mr. Imhof. There’s no need to make rash accusations.”

In the ensuing silence, Rollo’s radio chimed-he was receiving the callback about the cell check for the special prisoner. As Imhof watched, the security manager lifted the radio to his ear and listened, his face gradually turning a slack, dead white.

Glinn glanced down at Special Agent Pendergast. He lay unmoving on the couch of burgundy-colored leather, arms over his chest, ankles crossed. He had been like that for almost twenty minutes. With his unnaturally pale complexion and gaunt features, the man looked remarkably like a corpse. The only signs of life were the beads of sweat that had sprung out across Pendergast’s forehead and a faint trembling in his hands.

His body jerked once, suddenly, then fell still. The eyes slowly opened-remarkably bloodshot, the pupils like pinpricks in the silvery irises.

Glinn wheeled forward, leaned close. Something had happened. The memory crossing was over.

“You stay. Alone,” Pendergast said in a husky whisper. “Send Lieutenant D’Agosta and Dr. Krasner away.”

Glinn closed the door quietly behind him, turned the lock. “Done.”

“What is to come… must take the form of an interrogatory. You will ask questions. I will answer them. There is no other way. I…” And here the whisper stopped for a long moment. “I am unable to speak about what I have just witnessed-voluntarily.”

“Understood.”

Pendergast lay silent. After a moment, Glinn spoke again. “You have something to tell me.”

“Yes.”

“About your brother, Diogenes.”

“Yes.”

“The Event.”

A pause. “Yes.”

Glinn glanced at the ceiling, where a tiny camera and high-gain microphone were concealed. Reaching into his pocket, he pressed a small remote control, deactivating them. Some inner sense told him that whatever was to come should remain solely the province of their collective memory.

He inched his wheelchair forward. “You were there.”

“Yes.”

“You and your brother. No others.”

“No others.”

“What was the date?”

Another pause. “The date is not important.”

“Let me decide that.”

“It was spring. The bougainvillea was in bloom outside. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“And your brother must have been seven, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Location?”

“Maison de la Rochenoire, our ancestral home on Dauphine Street, New Orleans.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Exploring.”

“Go on.”

Pendergast was silent. Glinn remembered his words: You will ask questions. I will answer them.

He cleared his throat quietly. “Did you frequently explore the house?”

“It was a large mansion. It had many secrets.”

“How long had it been in the family?”

“It had originally been a monastery, but an ancestor purchased it in the 1750s.”

“And which ancestor was that?”

“Augustus Robespierre Pendergast. He spent decades refashioning it.”

Glinn knew most of this, of course. But it had seemed better to keep Pendergast talking for a bit-and answering the easy questions-before venturing deeper. Now he would penetrate.

“And where were you exploring on this particular day?” he asked.

“The sub-basements.”

“Were they one of the secrets?”

“My parents didn’t know we had found our way into them.”

“But you had discovered a way.”

“Diogenes did.”

“And he shared it with you.”

“No. I-followed him once.”

“That’s when he told you.”

A pause. “I made him tell me.”

The sweat was thicker on Pendergast’s brow now, and Glinn did not press this point. “Describe the sub-basements to me.”

“They were reached through a false wall in the basement.”

“And beyond, a staircase leading down?”

“Yes.”

“What was at the bottom of the staircase?”

Another pause. “A necropolis.”

Glinn paused a moment to master his surprise. “And you were exploring this necropolis?”

“Yes. We were reading inscriptions on the family tombs. That is how… how it started.”

“You found something?”

“The entrance to a secret chamber.”

“And what was inside?”

“The magical equipment of my ancestor, Comstock Pendergast.”

Glinn paused again. “Comstock Pendergast, the magician?”

“Yes.”

“So he stored his stage equipment in the sub-basement?”

“No. My family hid it there.”

“Why did they do that?”

“Because much of the equipment was dangerous.”

“But while you were exploring the room, you didn’t know that.”

“No. Not at first.”

“At first?”

“Some of the devices looked strange. Cruel. We were young, we didn’t fully understand…” Pendergast hesitated.

“What happened next?” Glinn asked gently.

“In the back, we found a large box.”

“Describe it.”

“Very large-almost the size of a small room itself-but portable. It was garish. Red and gold. The face of a demon was painted on its side. There were words above the face.”

“What did the words say?”

“‘The Doorway to Hell.’”

Pendergast was trembling slightly now, and Glinn let some more time pass before speaking again. “Did the box have an entrance?”

“Yes.”

“And you went inside.”

“Yes. No.”

“You mean, Diogenes went first?”

“Yes.”

“Willingly?”

Another long pause. “No.”

“You goaded him,” Glinn said.

“That, and…” Pendergast stopped once more.

“You used force?”

“Yes.”

Glinn now kept utterly still. He did not allow even the slightest squeak of the wheelchair to break the tense atmosphere.

“Why?”

“He had been sarcastic, as usual. I was angry with him. If there was something a little frightening… I wanted him to go first.”

“So Diogenes crawled inside. And you followed him.”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

Pendergast’s mouth worked, but it was some time before the words emerged. “A ladder. Leading up to a crawl space above.”

“Describe it.”

“Dark. Stifling. Photographs on the walls.”

“Go on.”

“There was a porthole in the rear wall, leading into another room. Diogenes went first.”