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The night wore on. The few other prisoners in solitary-there were not many, and they were far down the hall-were long asleep. Yet still the prisoners in 44 and 45 drummed on together. As the prisoner named A explored more deeply this strange new world of external and internal rhythm, he began to understand something about the man next door and his mental illness-as had been his intent. It was not something that could be put into words; it was not accessible to language; it was not reachable by psychological theorizing, psychotherapy, or even medication.
Yet nevertheless-through careful emulation of the complex drumming-the prisoner in 44 began to reach that place, to enter the drummer’s special world. On a basic neurological level, he began to understand the drummer: what motivated him, why he did what he did.
Slowly, carefully, A took a measured foray into altering the rhythm along certain experimental pathways, to see if he could take the lead, induce the drummer to follow him for a moment. When this experiment proved successful, he very subtly began to alter the tempo, morph the rhythm. There was nothing sudden in his approach: every new beat, every altered rhythm, was carefully controlled and calculated to lead to a desired result.
Over the space of another hour, the dynamic between the two prisoners began to change. Without realizing it, the drummer became no longer the leader, but the follower.
Prisoner A continued to alter his own drumming, slowing it down and speeding it up by infinite degrees, until he was certain he was now setting the rhythm; that the Drummer in the cell next door was unconsciously following his tempo and lead. With infinite care, he then began to slow his own drumming: not in a steady way, but through speedups and slowdowns, through riffs and changeovers he had picked up from his neighbor, each time ending at a slightly slower tempo-until he was beating out a down-tempo as slow and sleepy as molasses.
And then he stopped.
The man in solitary 45, after a few tentative, lost beats, halted as well.
There was a long silence.
And then a breathy, hoarse voice came from cell 45. “Who… who are you?”
“I am Aloysius Pendergast,” came the reply. “And I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
An hour later, blessed silence reigned. Pendergast lay on his bunk, eyes closed but still awake. At a certain moment, he opened his eyes and scrutinized the faintly glowing dial of his watch-the one item prisoners were allowed, by law, to keep. Two minutes to four in the morning. He waited, now with his eyes open, and at exactly four o’clock a brilliant pinpoint of green light appeared on the far wall, dancing and jittering before gradually settling down. He recognized it as the output of a 532nm green DPSS laser-nothing more than the beam from an expensive laser pen, aimed through his window from some concealed spot far beyond the prison walls.
When the light had stopped trembling, it began blinking, repeating a short introduction in a simple monophonic cipher, compressed to keep transmission short. The introduction was repeated four times, to make sure Pendergast recognized the code. Then, after a pause, the actual message began.
TRANSMISSION RECEIVED
STILL ANALYZING OPTIMAL ROUTES FOR EGRESS
CHANGE OF VENUE MAY BE REQUIRED ON YOUR END
WILL ADVISE ASAP
QUESTIONS FOLLOW-COMMUNICATE VIA PRIOR PROCEDURE
DESCRIBE YARD PRIVILEGES AND SCHEDULE
OBTAIN MATERIAL SAMPLES OF GUARD UNIFORM, SLACKS AND SHIRT
The requests and questions went on, some strange, some straightforward. Pendergast made no move to take notes, committing everything to memory.
At the last question, however, he started slightly.
ARE YOU WILLING TO KILL?
With that, the laser light vanished. Pendergast rose to a sitting position. Feeling under the mattress, he extracted a hard, frayed piece of canvas and a slice of lemon from a recent meal. Removing one shoe, he carried it to the sink, ran the water, placed a few drops into the soap depression, and dipped the shoe into it. Next, he squeezed the juice of the lemon slice into the water. With the piece of canvas, he proceeded to strip the shoe of some of its polish. Soon, a small amount of dark liquid stood in the enamel depression. He paused a moment in the gloom to make sure his movements were undetected. Then he unmade the corner of his bed, tore a long strip of sheet from beneath the tuck, laid it out on the rim of the sink. He removed one shoelace, dipped its previously sharpened and split metal edge into the liquid, and began to write in a fanatically small, neat hand, leaving a pale script on the strip of cotton.
By quarter to five, he had finished answering the questions. He laid the sheet on the radiator until it was baking hot, which darkened and fixed the writing; then he began to roll it up. But as he did so, he paused, and then added one more small line at the bottom: “Continue to keep a close eye on Constance. And be of good cheer, my dear Vincent.”
He baked on this last part of the message, rolled it tight, and inserted it into the drain in his cell. Then he filled his slop bucket at the sink and poured it down the drain, repeating the process a dozen times.
One hour to wake-up. He lay down on the bed, folded his hands across his chest, and went instantly to sleep.
Chapter 21
Mary Johnson swung open the oversize door to the Egyptian gallery and stepped inside, feeling around on the cold marble wall for the light switches. Although she knew the technicians had been working late hours on the tomb recently, by six in the morning they were always gone. It was her job to unlock the area for the subcontractors, turn on the lights, and make sure all was well.
She found the bank of switches and brushed them on with a plump forefinger. Rows of old glass and bronze light fixtures blazed, casting a mellow incandescent glow over the partly refurbished hall. She paused for a moment in the doorway, fists parked on bulging hips, looking around to make sure all was in order. Then she began moving down the hall, her giant butt swaying as she hummed old disco tunes to herself, twirling a ring of keys in her hand. The jangling keys, clicking heels, and off-key voice echoed through the large chamber, creating a reassuring cocoon of noise that had seen her through thirty years of nighttime employment at the New York Museum of Natural History.
She reached the a
Damn techies left the lights on.
She stood in the doorway, pausing. Then she tossed her head and sniffed disdainfully at her own uncertainty. Some of the guards who’d had family working here in the thirties had begun whispering about the tomb being cursed; how it had been boarded up for good reason; how it was a big mistake reopening it. But since when was an Egyptian tomb not cursed? And Mary Johnson prided herself on her brisk, matter-of-fact approach to her job. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. No bullshit, no whining, no excuses.
Curse, hell.
With a cluck, she descended the broad stone stairs into the tomb, humming and singing, her voice echoing about the close space.
Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…