"You mean when you remember?"

"No, when I'm told."

"And just who will be telling you?" Harry snapped.

The old man just smiled again, irritating Harry further. "Sit down, Harry," he said. "We need to talk."

Harry scowled at the old man and began pacing the room. If this was hell, it was damned claustrophobia-inducing. Abruptly, he asked, "So, if Saint Peter has the keys to heaven, who're you supposed to be?"

"Who I am isn't important," the old man said. "The real question is who you are."

"Don't try to match sophistry with me, old man."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"What's on the other side of that door?" Harry asked.

"What do you think is out there?" the old man countered.

"Two for one special on questions?"

"Use your imagination, Harry. You've always had more than enough of that to go around."

Harry sighed. "I'd expected scenes from Dante, but if this place is an indication," he said, waving to indicate the cell-like room, "it's hardly anything so interesting. With my luck, hell is another beaurocrat-run institution." He eyed the dingy cement block walls with distaste.

"Well, the management does try to keep up with the times." That didn't improve Harry's outlook. The old man continued, "But if, for argument's sake, this door did open on the Inferno the poet described, which circle do you think it would be?"

Harry thought for a moment. "At best the second, where the carnal are wind-driven. More likely the river of blood with other killers in the seventh circle." He paused, contemplating the fate of thieves for a moment, then laughed softly. "No. There's only one place for good cops who go bad." He looked into the old man's eyes, ignoring the pity in them. "The ninth circle."

"The lake of ice," the old man murmured. "With the betrayers."

Harry flinched and looked away.