Dance Of Death

'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.'