The Book of the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  Imhof glanced at the clock, waited for the second hand to sweep around to exactly 7:30. Coffey hadn’t shown up, but he wasn’t going to wait. The truth was, the smug FBI agent and his lackey had really begun to get on his nerves.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “let me start this meeting by saying to all of you: well done.”

  A murmuring and a vague shifting greeted this opening.

  “Today, Herkmoor faced an extraordinary challenge-a mass escape attempt. At two-eleven P.M., nine inmates cut the fence in one of the building C exercise yards and fanned out through the inner perimeter fields. One got as far as the security station at the south end of building B. The cause of the breakout is still under investigation. Suffice to say, it appears that the prisoners in yard 4 were not under direct guard supervision at the time of the escape, for reasons that remain unclear.”

  He paused, giving the group around the table a stern look. “We will be addressing that failure in the course of this debriefing.”

  Then he relaxed his features. “Overall, the response to the escape attempt was immediate and by the book. First responders were at the scene at two-fourteen and a Code Red was immediately sounded. More than fifty guards were mobilized for the response. In well under an hour, every single escapee had been recaptured and all prisoners had been accounted for. By three-oh-one, the Code Red had ended. Herkmoor returned to business as usual.”

  He paused for a moment. “Once again, I offer my congratulations to all involved. Everyone can relax, this is merely a pro forma meeting-as you know, a formal debriefing is required by regulation to occur within twelve hours of any Code Red. I apologize for keeping you here past your normal workday: let’s see if we can’t tie up any loose ends quickly so we can all get home to dinner. I urge any of you with questions to ask them as we proceed. Do not stand on ceremony.”

  He looked around the room. “I call first on building C security manager James Rollo. Jim, could you talk about the role of Officer Sidesky? There seems to be some confusion about that.”

  A man with a pour-over belly arose with the sound of jingling keys, adjusted his belt with more jingling. His face had assumed a stolid look of high seriousness.

  “Thank you, sir. As you mentioned, the Code Red was sounded at two-fourteen. The first responders came from guard station 7. Four responded, leaving Officer Sidesky to man the guard station. It appears one of the escapees overpowered Officer Sidesky, drugged him, tied him up, and left him in the nearby men’s room. He’s still disoriented, but as soon as he is lucid we’ll get a statement.”

  “Very well.”

  At this point, a restless-looking man in a nurse’s uniform rose. “I’m Staff Nurse Kidder, sir, in charge of the building B infirmary.”

  Imhof looked at him. “Yes?”

  “There seems to have been some kind of mix-up. Early in the escape attempt, the EMTs brought down an injured guard claiming to be Sidesky, in uniform with his badge and ID. He then disappeared.”

  “That’s easily explained,” said Rollo. “We found Sidesky without his uniform and badge. He must have left the infirmary. And then, evidently, one of the prisoners must have stripped Sidesky after knocking him out.”

  “That sounds logical to me,” said Imhof. He hesitated. “Only thing is, all the escapees were apprehended in their prison garb. None were wearing uniforms.”

  Rollo rubbed his wattle. “The prisoner who stripped Sidesky probably didn’t have time to put on the uniform.”

  “That must be it,” said Imhof. “Mr. Rollo, please record those items as missing: uniform, badge, and ID belonging to Sidesky. I expect they’ll be found in the trash or in a dark corner somewhere. Can’t have them falling into prisoner hands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mystery solved. Continue, Mr. Rollo.”

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” said Kidder, “but I’m not sure the mystery is solved. This man claiming to be Sidesky was left in the infirmary awaiting the radiologist while I attended to some of the escapees. He had several broken ribs, contusions, a facial laceration, a-”

  “We don’t need the complete diagnosis, Kidder.”

  “Right, sir. Anyway, he was in no condition to go anywhere. And when I returned, Sidesky-I mean, the guy claiming to be Sidesky-had disappeared, and in his bed was the corpse of the prisoner, Carlos Lacarra.”

  “Lacarra?” Imhof frowned. He hadn’t heard this part before.

  “That’s right. Someone had moved his cadaver and stuck him in Sidesky’s bed.”

  “Somebody’s idea of a joke?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I was wondering if… well, if it could be involved with the escape attempt somehow.”

  There was a silence.

  “If so,” Imhof finally said, “then we’re dealing with a more sophisticated plan than we initially assumed. But the bottom line is this: every single escapee was recaptured and is accounted for. We’ll be interrogating them in the days ahead to unravel exactly what happened.”

  “One other thing troubles me,” Kidder went on. “During the escape, a morgue-mobile arrived to take Lacarra’s body away. It was kept waiting outside the gates until the Code Red came down.”

  “And?”

  “When the code was called off, the ambulance came in and loaded the body. The chief physician witnessed the loading and signed the papers.”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “The problem, sir, is that it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that I found Lacarra’s body in Sidesky’s bed.”

  Imhof raised his eyebrows. “So the wrong stiff got picked up in the confusion. That’s understandable. Don’t be too hard on yourself, Kidder. Just call the hospital and sort it out.”

  “I did that, sir. And when I called the hospital, they said our call to pick up the body this morning was canceled right after it came in. They swear they never even sent a morgue-mobile.”

  Imhof snorted. “That damn hospital is always screwing up, a dozen layers of administrators who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Call them back in the morning, tell them we sent them the wrong stiff and they should go look for it.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “But that’s just the problem, sir. We didn’t have any other corpse at Herkmoor. I can’t figure out what cadaver went to the hospital.”

  “You say the chief physician signed the papers?”

  “Yes. He went home at the end of his shift.”

  “We’ll get a statement from him tomorrow. No doubt we’ll straighten out this confusion in the morning. Anyway, it’s tangential to the escape attempt. Let’s get on with the debriefing.”

  Kidder fell silent, his face troubled.

  “All right. The next question is why the yard seemed to have no supervision at the time of the breakout. My time sheets show Fecteau and Doyle were on yard 4 duty at the time of the escape. Fecteau, could you please explain your absence?”

  A very nervous guard at the far end of the table cleared his voice. “Yes, sir. Officer Doyle and I had yard duty that day-”

  “The nine prisoners were escorted to the yard on schedule?”

  “Yes, sir. They arrived at two P.M. sharp.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At our yard posts, just as required.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, about five minutes later, we got the call from Special Agent Coffey.”

  “Coffey called you?” Imhof was truly astonished. This was way out of line. He glanced around: Coffey still hadn’t shown up.

  “Tell us about the call, Fecteau.”

  “He said he needed us right away. We explained we were on yard duty, but he insisted.”

  Imhof felt his anger rising. Coffey had told him nothing about this. “Tell us Agent Coffey’s exact words, please.”

  Fecteau hesitated, colored. “Well, sir, he said something like ‘If you’re not here in ninety seconds, I’ll have you transferred to North Dakota.’ Something like that, sir. I tried to explain
that we were the only two on yard duty, but he cut me off.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “And so you left the yard unattended, without checking with either the chief of security or me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought he must have authorized it with you.”

  “Why in hell, Fecteau, would I authorize the removal of the only two guards on yard duty, leaving a gang of prisoners to their own devices?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I assumed it was… because of the special prisoner.”

  “The special prisoner? What are you talking about?”

  “Well…” Fecteau had begun to stumble over his words. “The special prisoner who had exercise privileges in yard 4.”

  “Yes, but he never made it to yard 4. He remained in his cell.”

  “Um, no, sir. We saw him in yard 4.”

  Imhof took a deep breath. Things were more screwed up than he had thought. “Fecteau, you’re getting confused. The prisoner remained in his cell all day and was never escorted to yard 4. I checked on it personally during the code-I have the electronic logs right here. The anklet scans show he never left solitary.”

  “Well, sir, my best recollection is that the special prisoner was there.” He cast an inquiring glance toward the other guard, Doyle, who looked equally flummoxed.

  “Doyle?” Imhof asked sharply.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t ‘yes, sir’ me, I want to know: did you see the special prisoner in yard 4 today?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, that’s my recollection, sir.”

  A long silence. Imhof screwed his eye around to Rollo, but the man was already murmuring into his radio. It took only moments for the security manager to put it aside and look up again. “According to the electronic monitor, the special prisoner’s still in his cell. Never left it.”

  “Better send someone to do a cell check, just to make sure.” Imhof boiled with fury at Coffey. Where the hell was he? This was all his fault.

  As if on cue, the door flew open and there was Special Agent Coffey, trailed by Rabiner.

  “It’s about time,” said Imhof darkly.

  “It certainly is about time,” said Coffey, striding into the room, face red. “I left specific orders for the special prisoner to be put into yard 4, and now I find out it was never done. Imhof, when I give an order, I expect it to be-”

  Imhof rose. He’d had it with this asshole, and he wasn’t going to let him bully him, especially in front of his staff. “Agent Coffey,” he said in an icy voice, “we had a serious escape attempt today, as you surely know.”

  “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.

  Chapter 52

  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.”