“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.
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.