Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(42)

Glinn looked at him without moving. “You’ll forgive me for contradicting you, Lieutenant, but human beings are disgustingly predictable. Especially in an environment like Herkmoor, where the rules of behavior are mapped out in excruciating detail. The scheme may seem simple, even inane, to you. But that’s its power.”

“It’s just going to get me into deeper shit than I am already.”

After dropping this epithet, he glanced at Constance. But the young woman was staring into the fire with her strange eyes, not even seeming to have heard.

“We never fail,” Glinn said, remaining unnervingly calm and neutral. “That’s our guarantee. All you need to do, Lieutenant, is follow instructions.”

“I’ll tell you what we really need: a pair of eyes on the inside. You can’t tell me none of those guards can be turned—blackmailed, whatever. Christ, prison guards are one step away from being criminals themselves, at least in my experience.”

“Not these guards. Any attempt to turn one would be foolhardy.” Glinn wheeled himself over to a desk. “If I told you we had somebody on the inside, however, would it reassure you?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Would it secure your cooperation? Silence all these doubts?”

“If the source was reliable, yeah.”

“I believe you will find our source to be above reproach.” And with that, Glinn picked up a single piece of paper and handed it to D’Agosta.

D’Agosta glanced over the sheet. It contained a long column of numbers, with two corresponding times linked to each number.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A schedule of guard patrols in the solitary unit during lockdown, from ten P.M. to six A.M. And this is just one of the many useful pieces of information that have come our way.”

D’Agosta stared in disbelief. “How the hell did you get it?”

Glinn allowed himself a smile—at least D’Agosta thought the faint thinning of the lips was a smile. “Our inside source.”

“And who might that be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You know him well.”

Now D’Agosta was even more surprised. “Not—?”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

D’Agosta slumped in his chair. “How did he get this to you?”

This time a true smile broke over Glinn’s features. “Why, Lieutenant, don’t you remember? You brought it out.”

“Me?”

Glinn reached behind the desk, pulled out a plastic box. Looking inside, D’Agosta was surprised to see some of the trash he’d collected in his recon of the prison perimeter—gum wrappers and scraps of linen—now carefully dried, pressed, and mounted between sheets of archival plastic. When he looked closely at the linen scraps, he could just make out faint markings.

“There’s an old drain in Pendergast’s cell—as in most of the older cells at Herkmoor—which was never hooked into the modern sewage treatment system. It drains into a catchment basin outside the prison walls, which in turn empties into Herkmoor Creek. Pendergast writes us a message on a scrap of trash, sticks it into the drain, and washes it down with water from the sink, which ends up in the creek. Simple. We discovered it because the DEP had recently cited Herkmoor for the water-quality violation.”

“What about ink? Writing equipment? Those are the first things they’d have taken away.”

“Frankly, I don’t know how he’s doing it.”

There was a short silence.

“But you knew he’d communicate with us,” D’Agosta said at last in a quiet voice.

“Naturally.”

Despite himself, D’Agosta was impressed. “Now, if there was only some way to get information to Pendergast.”

Wry amusement flickered briefly in Glinn’s eyes. “As soon as we knew what cell he was in, that was simplicity itself.”

Before D’Agosta could respond, a sudden noise rose in the library: a faint, urgent squeaking, coming from the direction of Constance. D’Agosta looked over in time to see her picking up a small white mouse from the carpet, which had apparently fallen from her pocket. She calmed it with soft words, petting it softly, before returning the mouse to its hiding place. Sensing the silence in the room and the eyes upon her, she looked up, coloring suddenly.

“What a delightful little pet,” Wren said after a moment. “I didn’t know you were fond of mice.”

Constance smiled nervously.

“Wherever did you get it, my dear?” Wren went on, his voice high and tense.

“I… found it in the basement.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Among the collections. The place is overrun.”