Dance Of Death

Faust in the original.'

'A marvelous work, vigorous and yet poetic.' Krasner took a seat on a wooden stool out of Pendergast's view.

'Do you employ the free-association methods of psychoanalysis?' Pendergast asked dryly.

'Oh, no! We've developed a technique all our own. It's very straightforward, actually-no tricks, no dream interpretations. The only thing Freudian about our technique is the office decor.' He chuckled again.

Glinn found himself smiling. The fourth interrogation mode used tricks-they all did-but, of course, the subject wasn't supposed to see them. Indeed, this fourth mode seemed like pure simplicity itself… on the surface. Highly intelligent people could be fooled, but only with the greatest of care and subtlety.

'I'm going to help you through some simple visualization techniques, which will also involve questioning. It's simple and there is no hypnosis involved. It's just a way to induce a calm and focused mind, receptive to questioning. Does that suit you, Aloysius? May I call you by your first name?'

'You may, and I am at your disposal, Dr. Krasner. I am only concerned that I may not be able to give you the information you desire, because I do not believe it exists.'

'Do not concern yourself with that. Simply relax, follow my instructions, and answer the questions as best you can.'

Relax. Glinn knew this was about the last thing Pendergast would be able to do, once Krasner got started.

'Wonderful. Now I'm going to turn down the lights. I will also ask you to close your eyes.'

'As you wish.'

The lights dimmed to a faint diffuse glow.

'Now we will allow three minutes to pass in silence,' said Krasner.

The minutes crawled by.

'Let us begin.' Krasner's voice had taken on a hushed, velvety tone. Another long silence, and then he resumed.

'Breathe in slowly. Hold it. Now let it out even more slowly. Again. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Relax. Very good. Now, I want you to imagine you are at your favorite place in all the world. The place where you feel most at home, most comfortable. Take a minute to place yourself there. Now turn around, examine your surroundings. Sample the air. Take in the scents, the sounds. Now, tell me: What do you see?'

A momentary silence. Glinn leaned still closer to the monitor.

'I am on a vast green lawn at the edge of an ancient beechwood forest. There is a summerhouse at the far end of the lawn. There are gardens and a millhouse to the west, where a brook flows. The lawn sweeps up to a stone mansion, shaded by elms.'

'What is this place?'

'Ravenscry. The estate of my Great-Aunt Cornelia.'

'And what is the year and season?'

'It is 1972, the ides of August.'

'How old are you?'

'Twelve.'

'Inhale the air again. What scents can you smell?'

'Freshly cut grass, with a faint overlay of peonies from the garden.'

'What are the sounds?'

'A whip-poor-will. The rustle of beech leaves. The distant murmur of water.'

'Good. Very good. Now I want you to rise. Rise off the ground, let yourself float… Look down as you rise. Do you see the lawn, the house, from above?'

'Yes.'

'Now rise further. One hundred feet. Two hundred. Look down again. What do you see?'

'The great sprawling house, the carriage house, the gardens, lawns, millhouse, trout hatchery, arboretum, greenhouses, the beechwood forest, and the drive winding to the stone gates. The encircling wall.'

'And beyond that?'

'The road to Haddam.'

'Now. Make it night.'

'It is night.'

'Make it day.'

'It is day.'

'Do you understand that you are in control, that all this is in your head, that none of this is real?'

'Yes.'

'During this process, you must always keep that in mind. You are in control, and none of what is happening is real. It is all in your mind.'

'I understand that.'

'Below, on the lawn, put the members of your family. Who are they? Name them, please.'

'My father, Linnaeus. My mother, Isabella. My Great-Aunt Cornelia. Cyril, the gardener, working to one side…'

There was a long pause.

'Anyone else?'

'And my brother. Diogenes.'

'His age?'

'Ten.'

'What are they doing?'

'Standing around just where I put them.' The voice sounded dry and ironic. Glinn could see very well that Pendergast was maintaining an ironic detachment and would attempt to do so as long as possible.

'Put them in some kind of typical activity,' Krasner went on smoothly. 'What are they doing now?'

'Finishing tea on a blanket spread out on the lawn.'

'Now I want you to drift down. Slowly. Join them.'

'I am there.'

'What are you doing, exactly?'

'Tea is over and Great-Aunt Cornelia is passing a plate of petits fours. She has them brought up from New Orleans.'

'Are they good?'

'Naturally. Great-Aunt Cornelia has the highest standards.' The tone of Pendergast's voice was laden with irony, and Glinn wondered just who this Great-Aunt Cornelia was. He glanced down at an abstract attached to Pendergast's file, flipped through it, and came to the answer of his question. A chill crept up his spine. He quickly shut the file-right now that was a distraction.

'What kind of tea did you take?' asked Krasner.

'Great-Aunt Cornelia will only drink T. G. Tips, which she has sent over from England.'

'Now look around the blanket. Look at everyone. Gaze around until your eyes come to rest on Diogenes.'

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.'