Reliquary (Pendergast, Book 2) (Relic) Read online

  60

  Snow watched as the dark figures massed, filling the mouth of the tunnel before them. They had paused in the harsh brilliance of the flare, but were now moving forward with a kind of deliberation that made Snow’s skin crawl. These were not brainless creatures throwing themselves mindlessly into battle; some kind of strategy was at work.

  “Listen,” Donovan said quietly. “Load one of those canister rounds into the XM-148. We’ll fire together on my signal. You aim at the left of the group, I’ll aim at the right. Reload and fire again as fast as you can. Grenade launchers have a tendency to pull high, so keep your aim low.”

  Snow loaded the round into the launcher, feeling his heart thumping at the back of his throat. Beside him, he felt Donovan grow tense.

  “Now!” Donovan yelled.

  Snow pulled the forward trigger, and the weapon almost bucked out of his hands as the load roared toward the group. The bright plumes of the two explosions filled the narrow tunnel with orange light; Snow found he had aimed too far to the left, hitting the wall of the tunnel. Then, with a deep shudder, a section of the ceiling collapsed. Horrifying screams came from the group of hooded figures.

  “Again!” Donovan cried, loading another round.

  Snow reloaded and fired again, letting the barrel drift slightly to the right this time. He watched, mesmerized, as the shell erupted from the barrel and—seemingly in slow motion—pinwheeled its way over the heads of the roiling group at the tunnel’s mouth. There was another shudder and a fresh burst of light.

  “Lower!” Donovan screamed. “They’re closing!”

  Sobbing now, Snow ripped open the extra pouch with his teeth, loaded the round, and fired again. The bright fierce plume erupted in the midst of the figures. Muffled shrieks sounding piercingly over the roar of the explosion.

  “Again!” Donovan yelled, firing his own grenade launcher at the figures. “Hit them again!”

  Snow loaded, fired; the shot fell short, sending a concussive blast of heat toward them, knocking him to his knees. He righted himself, blinking against the clouds of dust and smoke that billowed through the dark space. He was out of grenades, and his finger moved from the forward trigger to the rear trigger.

  Donovan held up his hand in the signal for “danger point.” They waited, guns pointed into the blackness, for what seemed to Snow like several minutes. At last, Donovan relaxed his weapon.

  “That was a hell of a shitstorm,” he whispered. “You did all right. I want you to hang back for a moment while I recon. If you hear anything, give a holler. I doubt we’ll find anything larger than a pinky waiting for us after that, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  He checked the magazine of his M-16, snapped on a flare, and tossed it into the drifting smoke. Then he moved forward slowly, hugging the tunnel wall. As the smoke dissipated, Snow could see the dim outlines of Donovan’s head and shoulders as he moved stealthily forward, the dark bar of his shadow flickering behind him.

  As Snow watched, the SEAL picked his way around the broken, smoking forms that littered the mouth of the tunnel. Reaching the mouth of the tunnel, Donovan looked cautiously around, then rotated himself out into Three Points. Finally he took a step into the chamber and was swallowed up by the blackness, and Snow was left alone with only the dark for company. It suddenly occurred to him that the duffel of magnesium flares was still hanging by his side, forgotten in the fight. He fought back the urge to shrug it off and leave it behind. Rachlin said it stays with me until the mission’s over, he thought. So it stays.

  Rachlin … it seemed impossible that those creatures could have killed all the SEALs. They were too well armed, too battle savvy. If the other two tunnels were like this one, maybe some of the men escaped up the ladders at the end. If so, we ought to go back and try to …

  Suddenly, Snow stopped, surprised by the coolness with which he was thinking these thoughts. Maybe he was braver than he’d thought. Or just more stupid. If only that bastard Fernandez could see me now, he thought.

  His thoughts were interrupted as the form of Donovan once again emerged from the blackness, looked around, then motioned him forward. Snow moved quickly toward him, then slowed as a grim sight came into view. The gear was still neatly piled along the wall, a stark contrast to the dismembered, headless figures lying at crazy angles in the muck of the tunnel floor.

  “Hurry up!” he heard Donovan whisper. “No time for rubbernecking.”

  He looked up. Donovan stood there, arms folded, surveying the equipment with an impatient scowl on his face.

  Above Donovan, in the thick darkness of the vault, a black form dropped from the dangling chain with a sudden shriek and landed on his back.

  Donovan staggered and managed to shrug the thing off, but two more figures dropped nearby and grappled with the SEAL, bringing him to his knees. Snow stumbled backward, aiming his gun, unable to get a clear shot. Another lunged forward, knife in hand, and Donovan screamed: an impossibly high, almost feminine sound. There was a strange sawing motion, a guttural roar of triumph, and the figure raised Donovan’s head in the air. Momentarily paralyzed by the sight, Snow thought he saw Donovan’s eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, dim reflections of the red glow at the rear of the tunnel.

  Snow fired then, short staccato bursts as Donovan had taught him, hosing the barrel left and right toward the obscene group huddled over Donovan’s body. He knew, somehow, that he was shouting, though he couldn’t hear it. The magazine emptied and he slammed home the spare, screaming and firing until the clip ran dry. As his ears rang in the sudden silence, he took a step forward, waving the cordite aside, searching the gloom for the nightmare apparitions. He took another step, then another.

  The blackness ahead seemed to shift—as if moving in against itself—and Snow wheeled and ran for the end of the tunnel, his feet churning through the mud and the dank water, the empty clip clattering forgotten onto the slick stones behind him.

  61

  Margo closed her eyes tightly, trying to empty her mind against the ultimate pain. But a moment passed, then another, and she felt herself wrenched from the ground and borne away, slung roughly from side to side, the heavy carryall chafing at her shoulder. Despite the transcendent horror, relief flooded through her: at least she was still alive.

  She passed through a close, foul-smelling darkness, then into a large, dimly illuminated space. She forced her eyes open, straining to orient herself. She could see a ruined mirror, covered in what looked like countless layers of dried mud, most of its glass shattered and lost long ago. Beside it, an ancient tapestry of a unicorn in captivity, rotting from the bottom up. Then she was jostled again, and she now saw the marble walls rushing toward a high, glittering ceiling, the ruined chandelier. A tiny metal plate glinted at the ceiling’s center: their viewhole, not ten minutes before. I’m in the Crystal Pavilion, she thought.

  The foul odor was stronger here than ever, and she fought against panic and a rising despair. She was brusquely thrown to the ground, the blow knocking the breath from her lungs. Gasping, she tried to rise to one elbow. She saw she was surrounded by Wrinklers, shuffling back and forth, swathed in their ragged patchwork cloaks and hoods. Despite her horror, she found herself looking at them with curiosity. So these are the victims of glaze, she thought, her mind clearing. She could not help feeling a stab of pity over what had happened to them. She wondered again if it was necessary for them to die, even as she knew in her heart there was no other answer. Kawakita himself had written that there was no antidote—no way to reverse what the reovirus had done to them—anymore than there had been a way to reverse what had happened to Whittlesey.

  But with this thought came another, and she stared around wildly. The charges had been set and would soon detonate. Even if the Wrinklers spared them—

  One of the creatures bent forward, leering at her. The hood slipped back a moment, and all thoughts of pity—even thoughts of her own immediate danger—fled away in overwhelming revulsion. She had a brief, s
earing vision of grotesquely wrinkled skin with pendulous folds and dewlaps, surrounding two lizardlike eyes, black and dead, their pupils contracted to quivering pinpoints. She turned away.

  There was a thump and Pendergast was thrown to the ground beside her. Smithback and Mephisto, struggling wildly, followed after him.

  Pendergast looked at her questioningly, and she nodded that she was unhurt. There was another commotion, then Lieutenant D’Agosta was dumped nearby, his weapon tugged from him and tossed aside. He was bleeding freely from a large gash above one eye. A Wrinkler tore the pack from her shoulder and tossed it to the ground, then started toward D’Agosta.

  “Keep away from me, you goddamn mutant,” the policeman swore. One of the Wrinklers leaned forward and dealt him a slashing blow across the face.

  “You’d better cooperate, Vincent,” said Pendergast quietly. “We are slightly outnumbered.”

  D’Agosta rose to his knees and shook his head clear. “Why are we still alive?”

  “The question of the hour,” replied Pendergast. “I’m afraid it might have to do with the ceremony that’s about to begin.”

  “Hear that, scriblerian?” Mephisto chuckled mirthlessly. “Perhaps the Post will buy your next story: ‘How I Became a Human Sacrifice.’ “

  The soft chanting rose once again, and Margo felt herself pulled to her feet. A path was cleared among the shuffling throng, and she could make out the hut of skulls, perhaps twenty feet in front of them. She stared in mute horror at the macabre structure, stained and unclean, grinning a thousand grins. Several figures moved around within it, and great wafts of steam rose above the unfinished roof. It was surrounded by a paling of human longbones indifferently cleaned. Before the entrance, she could make out several ceremonial stone platforms. Inside, through the countless empty eye sockets, she could see the vague form of the sedan chair on which the shaman had been brought in. She wondered what the terrifying apparition within might look like. She was not sure she could bear to see another face such as the one that had leered at her hungrily moments before.

  A hand at her back propelled her roughly forward, and she half walked, half stumbled toward the hut. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see D’Agosta struggling with the Wrinklers prodding him along. Smithback, too, was silently resisting. One of them drew a long, evil-looking stone knife from beneath the folds of his cloak and held it to the journalist’s throat.

  “Cuchillos de pedernal,” Pendergast murmured. “Isn’t that what the subway survivor told you?”

  D’Agosta nodded.

  A few feet from the paling, Margo was brought to a halt, then forced to her knees and held along with the others. Around her, the chanting and drumming had increased to a fever pitch.

  Suddenly her eyes focused on the stone platforms around the hut. There were several metal objects on the nearest, lovingly arranged as if for some ritual purpose.

  Then she caught her breath. “Pendergast?” she croaked.

  Pendergast looked toward her inquiringly, and she gestured with her head toward the platform. “Ah,” he whispered. “The larger of the souvenirs. I could only carry the smaller pieces.”

  “Yes,” Margo replied urgently, “but I recognize one of these. It’s the handbrake to a wheelchair.”

  A look of surprise crossed Pendergast’s face.

  “And that piece there is a tipping lever, broken off at the stub.”

  Pendergast tried to move toward the platform, but one of the figures forced him back. “This makes no sense,” he said. “Why would such an arrangement be—” He stopped abruptly. “Lourdes,” he said in a low whisper.

  “I don’t understand,” Margo answered. But Pendergast said nothing more, his eyes now fixed on the figure inside the hut.

  There was a rustling from within, then a small procession began to emerge. Cloaked figures stepped out in groups of two, carrying between them large cauldrons of steaming liquid. Around her, the chanting increased until it seemed to Margo one long, monotonous cacophony. The Wrinklers seated the cauldrons into depressions beaten into the floor of the Pavilion. Then the sedan chair emerged, covered in dense black material, flanked by four bearers. The bearers processed with measured step around the bone paling. Reaching the farthest, largest stone platform, they carefully placed the sedan chair upon it. The supports were drawn away, the covering removed, and the lieutenants moved slowly back into the hut.

  Margo stared at the shadowed figure in the chair, his features invisible in the darkness, the only observable movement the slight flexing of thick fingers. The chanting ebbed, then swelled again, taking on an unmistakable undertone of anticipation. The figure raised his hand suddenly, and the chanting ceased in an instant. Then, as he leaned forward, the flickering firelight slanted across his face.

  For Margo, it was as if time itself were suspended for a brief, terrible instant. She forgot the fear, the aching knees, the detonation timers relentlessly ticking in the dark corridors above her head. The man who sat on the litter made of lashed human bone—dressed in the familiar gabardine pants and paisley tie—was Whitney Frock.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came.

  “Oh, my God,” Smithback said behind her.

  Frock gazed across the assembled throng, his expression impassive, devoid of emotion. The huge hall was deathly silent.

  Slowly, Frock’s eyes swept forward to the prisoners before him. He looked at D’Agosta, then Smithback, then Pendergast. When his gaze reached Margo, he started suddenly. Something kindled in his eyes.

  “My dear,” he said. “How truly unfortunate. Frankly, I didn’t expect to see you as science advisor for this little outing, and I am indeed sorry. No—it’s true, and you needn’t look at me like that. Remember how, when it came time to get rid of that meddlesome Irishman, I spared your life. Against my own better judgment, I might add.”

  Margo, reeling in shock and disbelief, could not speak.

  “However, it can’t be helped.” The flicker in Frock’s eyes died away. “As for the rest of you, welcome. I think some introductions are in order. For example, who is this hirsute gentleman with the ragged clothes?” He turned to Mephisto. “He has the face of a wild animal caught in a trap, which I suppose is exactly what he is. One of the natives, I imagine, brought along as a guide. I will ask you again, what is your name?”

  There was a silence.

  He turned to one of his lieutenants. “Cut his throat if he doesn’t answer. We can’t tolerate rudeness, now, can we?”

  “Mephisto,” came the sullen reply.

  “Mephisto, indeed! A little learning is a dangerous thing. Especially in a derelict. But ‘Mephisto.’ Really, how banal. No doubt meant to strike fear into the hearts of your scabby little followers. You don’t look like much of a devil to me, just a pathetic, drug-addled bum. I should not complain, however: you and your likes have been exceedingly useful, I will admit. Perhaps you will find an erstwhile friend amongst my children …” He swept his hand across the gathered ranks of

  Wrinklers. Mephisto drew himself up, saying nothing.

  Margo stared at her former professor. This was like no Frock she had ever seen before. He had always been diplomatic and soft-spoken. Now there was an arrogance, a cold lack of emotion, that chilled her even beyond the fear and confusion she felt.

  “And Smithback, the journalist!” Frock sneered. “Were you brought along to document this intended victory over my children? Pity you won’t be able to tell the real outcome in that scandal sheet you write for.”

  “The jury’s still out on that,” Smithback said defiantly.

  Frock chuckled.

  “Frock, what the hell is all this?” D’Agosta said as he struggled. “You’d better explain, or—”

  “Or what?” Frock turned toward the police officer. “I always thought you a crude, ill-bred fellow. But I’m surprised it’s necessary to point out you are in no position to make demands of me. Are they disarmed?” he asked one of the hooded figures clo
sest to him, who nodded slowly in reply.

  “Check that one again,” Frock said, pointing to Pendergast. “He’s a tricky devil.”

  Pendergast was hauled roughly to his feet, searched, then shoved back to his knees. Frock slowly scanned them with his eyes, smiling coldly.

  “That was your wheelchair, wasn’t it?” Pendergast asked quietly, indicating the platform.

  Frock nodded. “My best wheelchair.”

  Pendergast said nothing. Margo turned to Frock, finding her voice at last. “Why?” she asked simply. Frock looked at Margo for a moment, then signaled his lieutenants. The cloaked forms moved into position behind the huge cauldrons. Frock stood up, jumped down from the sedan chair, and approached the FBI agent on foot.

  “This is why,” he replied.

  Then he stood proudly, lifting his arms high above his head.

  “As I am cured, so shall you be cured!” he cried in a clear, ringing voice. “As I am made whole, so shall you be made whole!”

  A loud answering cry came from the assembly. The cry went on and on, and Margo realized it was not an inarticulate cry, but a kind of programmed guttural response. The creatures are speaking, she thought. Or trying to.

  Slowly, the cry died away and the chanting resumed. The deep, monotonous beat of the drums began again, and the lines of Wrinklers came shuffling forward toward the semicircle of cauldrons. The lieutenants brought delicate clay goblets out from within the hut. Margo stared, her mind unable to connect the beautifully formed implements with the hideous ceremony. One by one, the creatures came forward, accepting the steaming cups in horny-nailed hands, drawing them up into their hoods. She turned away, repelled by the thick slurping sounds that followed.