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M OTHER FUCK ! ” D’A GOSTA SAID, RECOILING.

Humblecut smiled, amused by his reaction. Then, keeping the derringer pointed, he rose, stepped forward, picked up the head by its hair, and planted it upright in such a way that the saucer eyes stared fixedly at D’Agosta.

“Perhaps now we can steer our conversation back onto a more civilized course,” Humblecut said. He readied pencil and notebook. “Shall we begin?”

But D’Agosta was still staring at the decapitated head of Mrs. Cookson. “ Jesus ,” he gasped.

Then he forced his gaze back to Humblecut. The man took out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Time is passing. Are you ready to answer my questions? Or shall I go fetch Mr. Cookson and add him to our audience?”

D’Agosta stared at him, trying to recover himself. “You son of a bitch!”

“You’re taxing my patience. You will answer my questions, with none of your own, or perhaps the next head you’ll see will be Joe’s—which, for now, remains where it belongs.”

He was a madman, and D’Agosta believed him. “Don’t hurt Joe, for God’s sake. Please. I’ll answer your questions.”

Humblecut smiled broadly. “Bear in mind, I know the answers to some of them already, so if I find you are lying, Joe will die. Now—” he consulted his notebook—“who won the World’s Championship Series in the year 2000?” He looked up inquiringly.

D’Agosta struggled to focus. What the hell was this about? “World’s Championship… You mean, baseball? The World Series?”

“Yes. Who was the winner?”

It was hard to think, with the dead eyes staring unblinkingly up at him. D’Agosta took a breath, then another. “The Yanks.”

Humblecut consulted his notebook again. “You mean, the Yankees?”

“Right. The New York Yankees.”

Humblecut raised his pencil and made a check mark, apparently satisfied. “What is the greatest invention of the twentieth century?”

Again D’Agosta was overwhelmed with confusion mingled with horror. Why was Humblecut asking these questions, instead of demanding to know where Pendergast was hiding out, or what their plans were—or something? “I don’t know. The computer, maybe?”

“Which is?”

“A device,” D’Agosta stammered. “A machine. Everyone has one. Electronic brains that can do incredible things.”

“For example?”

“Beat any human at chess. Store huge amounts of information. Do difficult mathematical calculations. You can reach anyone in the world, instantly—and see their faces as you talk to them. You use them for banking, making friends that seem like real people…” He raised his hands. “Everything.”

This was followed by much note-taking and more probing questions, one leading to the next. D’Agosta had to explain what the telephone was, radio, television, the internet, cars, airplanes, spaceships, men on the moon.

Humblecut wrote it all down. Then he changed the subject. “What was the worst event of the twentieth century?”

“Christ… 9/11, maybe. No, that was… The Holocaust. World War II. The bomb. Jesus, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Let us go through each one, then.”

Falteringly, D’Agosta explained the Holocaust, World Wars I and II, the atomic bomb, the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. As he spoke, Humblecut occasionally interrupted with shorter, more pointed questions, still writing everything down. What were the principles behind the bomb? How powerful was it? Who had them? Were there other genocides besides the Holocaust? The questions now probed the darkest, most horrific corners of the twentieth century, an area that Humblecut seemed to relish.

“Now,” the man said at last. “What were the greatest medical advances of the twentieth century?”

D’Agosta racked his brains. These questions were so off the wall. “Um, let’s see… penicillin… the heart transplant… DNA… cloning… CRISPR…”

Humblecut held up a hand. “Enough. Let me have an explanation of those items.”

D’Agosta struggled to explain as Humblecut probed into each medical discovery. What was a vaccine? How did it work? What were antibiotics? Did they cure smallpox? Were there still diseases in the twenty-first century? How long did people live?

Yes, there were still famines and epidemics. There were no cities on the moon. The question of life after death had not been answered. Nobody had proved or disproved God’s existence. You could go anywhere in the world in twenty-four hours. Robots were exploring Mars. D’Agosta, nearly certain he was in the hands of a madman, answered each question as truthfully as possible.

An hour passed, then another, before the questions finally ceased. “Thank you,” Humblecut said—and his tone had regained the fake friendliness he’d shown initially. “I believe you’ve answered my questions truthfully.” He put down his pencil and notebook. “Under the circumstances, I think we can reunite you with Joe now.”

Hearing this, D’Agosta silently thanked whatever god was orchestrating this nightmare. But when Humblecut stood up to put away his gun, a blackjack suddenly replaced it in his hand; and when he stroked D’Agosta’s skull with it, the thankfulness was cut off prematurely.