“Give me a hand here!” he called out.
Immediately, several people began throwing themselves against it. The rusty hinges gave way with a loud screech, and water gushed through the opening.
“Smithback! Find anything?”
“I got his flashlight!” came the disembodied voice.
“Good boy. Now come on back!”
As D’Agosta moved through the door, he noticed an iron D ring on the other side as well. He stood back and ushered the group through, counting. Thirty-seven. Bailey was gone. Smithback brought up the rear.
“All right, let’s shut this thing!” D’Agosta yelled.
Against the heavy flow of the water, the door groaned slowly shut.
“Smithback! Shine one of the lights here. Maybe we can find a way to bar this door.”
He looked at it for a second. If they could jam a piece of metal through the D ring, it just might hold. He turned [377] to the group. “I need something, anything, made of metal!” he called. “Does anyone have a piece of metal we can use to bar this door?”
The Mayor passed quickly through the group, then came up to D’Agosta, thrusting a small collection of metal items into his hands. As Smithback held the light, D’Agosta inspected the pins, necklaces, combs. “There’s nothing here,” he muttered.
They heard a sudden splashing on the other side of the door, and a deep grunt. A stench filtered through the low slats in the door. A soft thump and a brief squeal of hinges, and the door was pushed ajar.
“Christ! You there, help me shut this door!”
As before, people flung themselves against the door, forcing it shut. There was a rattle and then a louder boom as the thing met their force, then pushed them back. The door creaked open farther.
At D’Agosta’s shout, others joined the effort.
“Keep pushing!”
Another roar; then a tremendous thump heaved everyone back once again. The door groaned under the opposing weights, but continued to open, first six inches, then a foot. The stench became intolerable. Watching the door inch its way from the frame, D’Agosta saw three long talons snake their way around the edge. The shape felt along the door, then swiped forward, the talons alternately sheathing and unsheathing.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” D’Agosta heard the Mayor say, quite matter-of-factly. Somebody else began chanting a prayer in a strange singsong. D’Agosta placed the barrel of the gun near the monstrosity and fired once. There was a terrible roar and the shape vanished into churning water.
“The flashlight!” Smithback cried. “It’ll fit perfectly! Shove it into the ring!”
“That’ll leave us with just one light,” D’Agosta panted.
“Got a better idea?”
[378] “No,” D’Agosta said under his breath. Then, louder: “Everybody, push!”
With a final heave they slammed the door back into its iron frame, and Smithback shoved the flashlight through the D ring. It slid through easily, its flared end coming to rest against the metal hasp. As D’Agosta caught his breath, they heard another, sudden crash and the door shuddered, but held firm.
“Run, people!” cried D’Agosta. “Run!” They thrashed through the roiling water, falling and sliding. D’Agosta, buffeted from behind, fell face first into the rushing water. He rose and continued forward, trying to ignore the monster’s roaring and pounding—he did not think he could hear it and remain sane. He willed himself to think about the flashlight instead. It was a good, heavy police-issue flashlight. It would hold. He hoped to God it would hold. The group stopped at the second fork in the tunnel, crying and shivering. Time to radio Pendergast and get the fuck out of this maze, D’Agosta thought. He clapped his hand to his radio holster, and with a shock realized it was empty.
Coffey stood inside the forward security station, staring moodily at a monitor. He was unable to reach either Pendergast or D’Agosta. Inside the perimeter, Garcia in Security Command and Waters in the Computer Room were still responding. Had everybody else been killed? When he thought of the Mayor dead, and the headlines that were sure to follow, a hollow feeling grew in his stomach.
An acetylene torch, flickering near the silver expanse of the metal security door at the east end of the Rotunda, cast ghostly shadows across the tall ceiling. The acrid smell of molten steel filled the air. The Rotunda had grown strangely quiet. Field amputations were still taking place by the security door, but all the other guests had left for home or area hospitals. The journalists had finally been contained behind police barriers. Mobile [379] intensive care units were set up on nearby side streets and medevacs were standing by.
The SWAT team commander came over, buckling an ammo belt over his black fatigues. “We’re ready,” he said.
Coffey nodded. “Give me a tactical.”
The leader pushed a bank of emergency phones aside and unfolded a sheet.
“Our spotter will be leading us by radio. He’s got the detailed diagrams from this station. Phase One: We’re punching a hole through the roof, here, and dropping to the fifth floor. According to the specs of the security system, this door here will blow with one charge. That gives us access to the next cell. Then we proceed down to this props storage room on the fourth floor. It’s right above the Hall of the Heavens. There’s a trapdoor in the floor that Maintenance uses for cleaning and servicing the chandelier. We’ll lower our men and haul the wounded up in sling chairs. Phase Two: Rescue those in the subbasement, the Mayor and the large group with him. Phase Three: Search for those who may be elsewhere within the perimeter. I understand that people are trapped in the Computer Room and Security Command. The Museum Director, Ian Cuthbert, and a woman as yet unidentified may have gone upstairs. And don’t you have agents of your own within the perimeter, sir? The man from the New Orleans field office—”
“Let me worry about him,” Coffey snapped. “Who developed these plans?”
“We did, with the assistance of Security Command. That guy Allen has the cell layouts down cold. Anyway, according to the specs of this security system—”
“You did. And who’s in charge here?”
“Sir, as you know, in emergency situations the SWAT team commander—”
“I want you to go in there and kill the son of a bitch. Got it?”
[380] “Sir, our first priority is to rescue hostages and save lives. Only then can we deal with—”
“Calling me stupid, Commander? If we kill the thing in there, all our other problems are solved. Right? This is not your typical situation, commander, and it requires creative thinking.”
“In a hostage situation, if you take away the killer’s hostages, you’ve removed his base of power—”
“Commander, were you asleep during our crisis-control briefing? We may have an animal in there, not a person.”
“But the wounded—”
“Use some of your men to get the damn wounded out. But I want the rest of you to go after what’s in there and kill it. Then we rescue any stragglers at leisure, in safety and comfort. Those are your direct orders.”
“I understand, sir. I would recommend, however—”
“Don’t recommend jack shit, Commander. Go in the way you planned, but do the job right. Kill the motherfucker.”
The commander looked curiously at Coffey. “You sure about this thing being an animal?”
Coffey hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said. “I don’t know a hell of a lot about it, but it’s already killed several people.”
The Commander looked steadily at Coffey for a moment.
“Yeah,” he finally said, “well, whatever it is, we’ve got enough firepower to turn a herd of lions into a fine red mist.”
“You’re going to need it. Find the thing. Take it out.”
Pendergast and Margo looked down the narrow service tunnel into the subbasement. Pendergast’s flashlight sent a circle of light onto a sheet of black, oily water roiling past beneath them.
“It’s getting deeper,” Pendergast said. Then he turne
d [381] to Margo. “Are you sure the creature can make it up this shaft?” he asked.
“I’m nearly certain,” Margo said. “It’s highly agile.” Pendergast stepped back and tried once again to raise D’Agosta on the radio. “Something’s happened,” he said. “The Lieutenant has been out of contact for fifteen minutes. Ever since they hit that locked door.” He glanced down again through the shaft that sloped toward the subbasement below. “How are you planning to lay a scent with all this water?” he asked.
“You estimate they passed beneath here some time ago, right?” Margo asked.
Pendergast nodded. “The last time I spoke to him, D’Agosta told me the group was between the first and second forks,” he said. “Assuming they haven’t backtracked, he’s well beyond this spot.”
“The way I see it,” Margo continued, “if we sprinkle some fibers on the water, the flow should carry them to the creature.”
“That’s assuming the creature’s smart enough to realize the fibers came floating from upstream. Otherwise, he might just chase them further downstream.”
“I think it’s smart enough,” Frock said. “You mustn’t think of this creature as an animal. It may be nearly as intelligent as a human being.”
Using the handkerchief, Pendergast carefully removed some fibers from the bundle and sprinkled them along the base of the shaft. He dropped another handful into the water below.
“Not too much,” Frock warned.
Pendergast looked at Margo. “We’ll sprinkle a few more fibers to establish a good upwater trail, then drag the bundle back to the Secure Area and wait. Your trap will be set.” After scattering a few more fibers, he secured the bundle.
“At the rate this water is moving,” he said, “it should take only a few minutes to reach the creature. How fast do you expect the thing to respond?”
[382] “If the extrapolation program is correct,” Frock said, “the creature can move at a high rate of speed. Perhaps thirty miles an hour or greater, especially when in need. And its need for the fibers seems overpowering. It won’t be able to travel at full speed down these corridors—the residual scent trail we leave will be harder to track—but I doubt the water will slow it much. And the Secure Area is close by.”
“I see,” Pendergast said. “How unsettling. ‘He that has a mind to fight, let him fight, for now is the time.’ ”
“Ah,” said Frock, nodding. “Alcaeus.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Anacreon, Doctor. Shall we go?”
= 54 =
Smithback held the light, but it hardly seemed to penetrate the palpable darkness. D’Agosta, slightly in front, held the gun. The tunnel went on and on, black water rushing past and vanishing into the low-vaulted darkness. Either they were still descending, or the water was getting higher. Smithback could feel it pushing against his thighs.
He glanced at D’Agosta’s face, shadowy and grim, his thick features smeared with Bailey’s blood.
“I can’t go any farther,” someone wailed from the rear. Smithback could hear the Mayor’s familiar voice—a politician’s voice—reassuring, soothing, telling everyone what they wanted to hear. Once again, it seemed to work. Smithback stole a glance backward at the dispirited group. The lean, gowned, bejeweled women; the middle-aged businessmen in their tuxedos; the smattering of yuppies from investment banks and downtown law firms. He knew them all now, had even given them names and occupations in his head. And here they all [384] were, reduced to the lowest common denominator, wallowing around in the dark of a tunnel, covered with slime, pursued by a savage beast.
Smithback was worried, but still rational. Early on, he’d felt a moment of sheer terror when he realized the rumors about a Museum Beast were true. But now, tired and wet, he was more afraid of dying before he wrote his book than he was of dying itself. He wondered if that meant he was brave, or covetous, or just plain stupid. Whatever the case, he knew that what was happening to him down here was going to be worth a fortune. Book party at Le Cirque. Good Morning America, the Today Show, Donahue, and Oprah.
No one could do the story like he could, no one else had his first-person perspective. And he’d been a hero. He, William Smithback, Jr., had held the light against the monster when D’Agosta went back to shoot off the lock. He, Smithback, had thought of using the flashlight to brace the door. He’d been Lieutenant D’Agosta’s right-hand man.
“Shine the light up to the left, there.” D’Agosta intruded upon his thoughts, and Smithback dutifully complied. Nothing.
“I thought I saw something moving in the darkness,” D’Agosta muttered. “Must’ve been a shadow, I guess.”
God, Smithback thought, if only he lived to enjoy his success.
“Is it just my imagination, or is the water getting deeper?” he asked.
“It’s getting deeper and faster,” said D’Agosta. “Pendergast didn’t say which way to go from here.”
“He didn’t?” Smithback felt his guts turn to water.
“I was supposed to radio from the second fork,” D’Agosta said. “I lost my radio somewhere back before the door.”
Smithback felt another surge against his legs, a strong one. There was a shout and a splash.
“It’s all right,” the Mayor called out when Smithback [385] aimed the flashlight to the rear. “Someone fell down. The current’s getting stronger.”
“We can’t tell them we’re lost,” Smithback muttered to D’Agosta.
Margo swung open the door to the Secure Area, looked quickly inside, and nodded to Pendergast. The agent moved past the door, dragging the bundle.
“Shut it in the vault with the Whittlesey crates,” Frock said. “We want to keep the beast in here long enough for us to close the door on it.”
Margo unlocked the vault as Pendergast threaded a complex pattern across the floor. They put the bundle inside, then closed and locked the ornate vault door.
“Quick,” Margo said. “Across the hall.”
Leaving the main door to the Secure Area open, they crossed the hall to the elephant bone storage room. The small window in the door had long ago been broken, and a worn piece of cardboard now covered the opening. Margo unlocked the door with Frock’s key, then Pendergast pushed Frock inside. Switching Pendergast’s flashlight to its low setting, she balanced it on a ledge above the door, pointing the thin beam in the direction of the Secure Area. Finally, with a pen, she reamed a small hole in the cardboard and, with a last look down the corridor, stepped inside.
The storage room was large, stuffy, and full of elephant bones. Most of the skeletons were disassembled, and the great shadowy bones had been stacked on shelves like oversized cordwood. One mounted skeleton stood in a far corner, a dark cage of bones, two curving tusks gleaming in the pale light.
Pendergast shut the door, then switched off his miner’s lamp.
Peering through the hole in the cardboard, Margo had a clear view of the hallway and the open door of the Secure Area.
[386] “Take a look,” she said to Pendergast, stepping away from the door.
Pendergast moved forward. “Excellent,” he said after a moment. “It’s a perfect blind, as long as those flashlight batteries hold out.” He stepped back from the door. “How did you happen to remember this room?” he asked curiously.
Margo laughed shyly. “When you took us down here on Wednesday, I remember seeing this door marked PACHYDERMAE and wondering how a person could fit an elephant skull through such a small door.” She moved forward. “I’ll keep watch through the peephole,” she said. “Be ready to rush out and trap the creature in the Secure Area.”
In the darkness behind them, Frock cleared his throat. “Mr. Pendergast?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for asking, but how experienced are you with that weapon?”
“As a matter of fact,” the agent replied, “before the death of my wife I spent several weeks each winter big-game hunting in East Africa. My wife was an avid hunter.”
“Ah,” Frock re
plied. Margo detected relief in his voice. “This will be a difficult creature to kill, but I don’t think it will be impossible. I was never much of a hunter, obviously. But working together we may be able to bring it down.”
Pendergast nodded. “Unfortunately, this pistol puts me at a disadvantage. It’s a powerful handgun, but nothing like a .375 nitro express rifle. If you could tell me where the creature might be most vulnerable, it would help.”
“From the printout,” Frock said slowly, “we can assume the creature is heavy boned As you discovered, you won’t kill it with a head shot. And an upper shoulder or chest shot toward the heart would almost certainly be deflected by the massive bones and heavy musculature [387] of the creature’s upper body. If you could catch the creature sideways, you might get a shot into the heart from behind the foreleg. But again, the ribs are probably built like a steel cage. Now that I think about it, I don’t believe any of the vital parts of the beast are particularly vulnerable. A shot to the gut might kill eventually, but not before it took its revenge.”
“Cold comfort,” Pendergast said.
Frock moved restlessly in the darkness. “That leaves us in a bit of a quandary.”
There was silence for a moment. “There may still be a way.” Pendergast said at length.
“Yes?” Frock replied eagerly.
“Once, a few years ago, my wife and I were hunting bushbuck in Tanzania. We preferred to hunt alone, without gun bearers, and the only guns we had were 30-30 rifles. We were in light cover near a river when we were charged by a cape buffalo. It had apparently been wounded a few days earlier by a poacher. Cape buffalo are like mules—they never forget an injury, and one man with a gun looks much like any other.”
Sitting in the dim light, waiting for the arrival of a nightmarish creature, listening to Pendergast narrate a hunting story in his typical unhurried manner, Margo felt a sense of unreality begin to creep over her.
“Normally, in hunting buffalo,” Pendergast was saying, “one tries for a head shot just below the horn bosses, or for a heart shot. In this case, the 30-30 was an insufficient caliber. My wife, who was a better shot than I, used the only tactic a hunter could use in such a situation. She knelt and fired at the animal in such a way as to break it down.”
Relic Page 32
