Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(109)
Diogenes peered in. “What are they?”
“Machines,” the older brother said positively, as if he knew.
“Are you going in?”
“Naturally.” Aloysius stepped through the doorway and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I guess so.”
Pendergast, from the shadows, watched them go in.
The two boys stood in the room. The lead walls were streaked with whitish oxides. The space was packed floor-to-ceiling with contraptions: boxes painted with grimacing faces; old hats, ropes, and moth-eaten scarves; rusted chains and brass rings; cabinets, mirrors, capes, and wands. Cobwebs and thick layers of dust draped everything. At one end, propped up sideways, stood a sign, painted in garish colors and embellished with curlicues, a pair of pointing hands, and other nineteenth-century American carnival flourishes.
Pendergast stood in the shadows of his own memory, filled with the helpless foreboding of nightmare, watching the scene unfold. At first the two boys explored cautiously, their candlelight throwing elongated shadows among the boxes and piles of bizarre devices.
“Do you know what all this is?” whispered Aloysius.
“What?”
“We’ve found all the stuff from Great-Grand-Uncle Comstock’s magic show.”
“Who’s Great-Grand-Uncle Comstock?”
“Only the most famous magician in the history of the world. He trained Houdini himself.”
Aloysius touched a cabinet, ran his hand down to a knob, and cautiously pulled out a drawer: it contained a pair of manacles. He opened another drawer, which seemed to stick, and then it gave with a sudden pop! A pair of mice shot out of the drawer and scurried off.
Aloysius moved on to the next item, his younger brother following close behind. It was a coffin-like box standing upright, with a screaming man painted on the lid, numerous bloody holes piercing his body. He opened it with a groan of rusty hinges to reveal an interior studded with wrought-iron spikes.
“That looks more like torture than magic,” said Diogenes.
“There’s dried blood on those spikes.”
Diogenes peered closely, fear temporarily overcome by a strange eagerness. Then he stepped back again. “That’s just paint.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know dried blood when I see it.”
Aloysius moved on. “Look at that.” He pointed to an object in the far corner. It was a huge box, much larger than the others, rising from floor to ceiling, the size of a small room itself. It was garishly painted in red and gold with a grinning demon’s face on the front. Flanking the demon were odd things—a hand, a bloodshot eye, a finger—floating against the crimson background almost like severed body parts loosed in a tide of blood. Arched over a door cut into the side was a legend painted in gold and black:
“If it were my show,” said Aloysius, “I would have given it a much grander name, something more like ‘The Gates of the Inferno.’ ‘The Doorway to Hell’ sounds boring.” He turned to Diogenes. “Your turn to go first.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I went first last time.”
“Then you can go first again.”
“No,” said Aloysius. “I don’t care to.” He put his hand on the door and gave Diogenes a nudge with his elbow.
“Don’t open it. Something might happen.”
Aloysius opened it to reveal a dim, stifling interior, lined with what looked like black velvet. A brass ladder stood just inside, disappearing up through a hatch in a low false ceiling set into the box.
“I could dare you to go in there,” Aloysius went on, “but I’m not going to. I don’t believe in childish games. If you want to go in, go in.”
“Why don’t you go in?”
“I freely admit it to you: I’m nervous.”
With a creeping feeling of shame, Pendergast could see his knack for psychological persuasion, already developed as a boy, coming into play. He wanted to see what was in there—but he wanted Diogenes to go in first.
“You’re scared?” Diogenes asked.
“That’s right. So the only way we’re ever going to know what’s in there is if you go in first. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Scared?”
“No.” The quaver in his high-pitched voice said otherwise.
Pendergast reflected bitterly that Diogenes, who was only seven, hadn’t yet learned that truth is the safest lie.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“I… I don’t feel like it.”
Aloysius snickered dryly. “I admitted I was scared. If you’re scared, say so, and we’ll go back upstairs and forget all about it.”