“This is my special surprise for you. In this room you will find all the accoutrements of Victorian spiritualism, including a knocking or ‘turning’ table, Ouija board, candles, tambourine, bells, and a cage with an accordion in it that can be played remotely. There are poles, levers, wires, hooks, and funnels. That large case is what is known as a spirit cabinet. In short, this room contains everything necessary for holding a genuine Victorian séance, including all the devices used in tricks and frauds. Of course, you don’t need tricks and frauds if you indeed make contact with the spirit world.”
Constance went over to the collection. Diogenes was relieved and satisfied to see that she appeared completely entranced. He was pleased at himself for thinking of something she would love to have, but would never have thought of on her own.
“I might just add that this entire setup belonged to a famous British medium known as Estelle Roberts. Five days after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s death, in 1930, in front of a massive crowd in the Royal Albert Hall, Roberts contacted Doyle’s spirit — or so she claimed. No one of course has ever been able to refute, or confirm, this or any of her other séances.”
“How did you acquire it?”
“When she died in 1970, her house in Monken Hadley was shut up and fell into disrepair. I’ve always had an interest in these things; as you undoubtedly know, magic and prestidigitation is a Pendergast family interest going back generations. Six months ago, the old house came on the market; I realized this might be something that would amuse you, so I bought the house, had all the accoutrements of the séance room removed and carefully restored — and brought here. I then sold the old house at a profit — London real estate is such a good investment these days.”
He watched with delight as she explored the spirit cabinet, drawing back the curtain and looking at the strange devices within. She examined the turning table, peering underneath and poking around at its complex curves, corners, and carved decorations.
“I thought you might cherish this little collection,” said Diogenes, softly. “In fact, I knew it. I know that your long life, and the way your family was taken from you at a young age, has made the past very dear to you. That’s why I created this space: as a memorial to the past. With any luck, your past. When you feel ready, we shall have a séance. Perhaps, in time, you will be able to communicate with your sister, Mary. Or your parents.”
A great stillness came over Constance as he spoke, and Diogenes realized he might have stepped over a line. This was a very private aspect of her life, and this construction of his might seem like presumption.
She rose rather stiffly, staggered a moment, then began walking toward the bookcase door. As she passed by him, he was shocked at the deeply troubled expression on her face.
But then, just inside the door, she halted abruptly. For what seemed a long time, she remained still, her back to him. And then she turned around. Her face, her entire being, radiated exceedingly strong and conflicting emotions: of boldness and dread, determination and hesitation.
“What… what is it?” he stammered, terrified by the look on her face.
She raised her chin and took a step forward, with an expression of hatred, malice — and triumph.
60
The special agent in charge of the FBI Miami Field Office, Vantrice Metcalf, was very curious about her two special visitors. She had heard vague rumors about one of them going almost back to her days at Quantico — a legendary and controversial agent who operated outside the rules with apparent impunity; whose collars often ended up dead; and who was sometimes spoken of as the sort of rogue agent the new FBI should no longer tolerate. And yet he was not only tolerated, but seemed to have the run of the Bureau.
The other one she had also heard about, but that was mostly due to his high position as executive assistant director for intelligence. He was eccentric in his own way, a rather shadowy figure, but known to be brilliant, tough, and fair.
And here they were, in her office, together, and what a contrast they made. Longstreet, with his craggy face, long gray hair, rumpled blue suit, remarkable height, and gravelly voice. And the other… the other. So pale, sleek, and cat-like, with a buttered-biscuit accent from the Deep South, antebellum manners and gestures: a genteel yet intimidating persona with glittering chrome eyes and a black suit. It was the first time she had seen an FBI agent in a black suit — it just wasn’t part of the culture.
Metcalf was a sort of collector of people, and she prided herself on her ability to scope out a person by appearance alone. She could read a book by its cover, and that was one reason why she was the youngest SAC in the history of the Miami office, and the first woman, and the first African American. As she looked these two gentlemen up and down, she realized that nothing less than complete and total cooperation would be required — and that would bring to her side two very useful allies, who might be able to help her on the long road to her ultimate goaclass="underline" FBI director.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “What can I do to help?”
It was Longstreet who replied. “Ms. Metcalf, Special Agent Pendergast and I are on an assignment that is both confidential and unofficial. We have a rather unorthodox request.”
“Very well.” She wouldn’t make it too easy on them. She couldn’t be seen as a pushover — whatever it was they wanted.
“We’d like an hour, alone and unsupervised, in your PRISM system operations unit.”
At this, Metcalf’s eyebrows went up. This was a request so completely out of line that even she was momentarily astonished.
“We understand this is a rather unusual request,” said Longstreet.
“Well, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but even coming from the executive assistant director for intelligence this request is beyond the beyond. You know you need to go through channels.”
At this, the other one stirred. “Is that a no?”
The way he asked the question, so quietly, so politely, and yet so full of menace, was something Metcalf would have to analyze later and adopt herself.
“Have you heard the word no from me yet?” she said pleasantly.
“And I hope we won’t,” the man named Pendergast replied.
She waited, letting the silence build.
“Let me explain—” began Longstreet.
Pendergast laid a gentle hand on Longstreet’s arm. “I don’t think Ms. Metcalf is going to need — or want — an explanation.”
That’s very true, Metcalf thought. She let a second, longer silence build. To most people, Metcalf had discovered, silence was even more unbearable than pointed questioning.
“Ms. Metcalf,” said Pendergast, “we never forget who our friends are. And we have long memories.”
This was exactly what she wanted to hear, but she was surprised to hear it put so clearly. This was a man who valued directness. No weaselly beating around the bush. “When do you wish access?”
“Right now, if you please.”
For a third time she let the silence build. And then she said, “Gentlemen, if you could have a seat, it’ll take me about five minutes to clear the PRISM unit of extraneous personnel. I assume you’ll need a technical support person?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll leave the best one in there, then.”
When the room was ready, and as they were all leaving, Pendergast turned and offered her a hand as cool and clean as a fresh cotton sheet. “I’m so very glad we’re friends.”