Reliquary

by Douglas Preston

  Frock blinked in the cold white light. “Lieutenant D’Agosta told me these skeletons came out of the West Side Lateral Drain.”

  “That’s right,” said D’Agosta.

  “Flushed out by the recent storm.”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “Perhaps feral dogs worried our couple while their dead bodies lay in the drain system.”

  “That’s one possibility,” said Brambell. “I would estimate the pressure required to make the deepest of those pressure marks at around 1200 psi. A bit high for a dog, don’t you think?”

  “Not for, say, a Rhodesian Ridgeback,” said Frock.

  Brambell inclined his head. “Or the Hound of the Baskervilles, Professor?”

  Frock frowned at the sarcasm. “I’m not convinced those marks are as powerful as you believe.”

  “Alligator,” said D’Agosta.

  All heads turned toward him.

  “Alligator,” he repeated, almost defensively. “You know. They get flushed down the toilets as babies, then grow big in the sewers.” He looked around. “I read it somewhere.”

  Brambell issued a chuckle as dry as dust. “Alligators, like all reptiles, have cone-shaped teeth. These marks were made by small triangular mammalian teeth, probably canines.”

  “Canine, but not dog?” Frock said. “Let’s not forget the principle of Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

  Brambell tilted his head in Frock’s direction. “I know that Occam’s razor is held in great esteem in your profession, Dr. Frock. In mine, we find the Holmesian philosophy more apt: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ ”

  “So what answer remains, Dr. Brambell?” Frock snapped.

  “As of this moment, I have no explanation.”

  Frock settled back in the wheelchair. “This second skeleton is interesting. Perhaps even worth the trip in from Mendham. But you forget that I am now retired.”

  Margo watched him, frowning. Normally, the professor would have been more entranced by a puzzle such as this. She wondered if—perhaps in the same way as herself—Frock was reminded of the events of eighteen months before. If so, perhaps he was resisting. It was not the kind of reminiscence likely to ensure tranquil retirement.

  Olivia Merriam spoke up. “Dr. Frock,” she said, “we were hoping that you would be willing to assist in the analysis of the skeleton. Because of the unusual circumstances, the Museum has agreed to put its laboratory at the disposal of the police. We’ll be happy to provide you an office on the fifth floor, with secretary, for as long as necessary.”

  Frock raised his eyebrows. “Surely the City Morgue has all the latest equipment. Not to mention the luminous medical talents of Dr. Brambell here.”

  “You are correct about the luminous talent, Dr. Frock,” Brambell replied. “But as for having the latest equipment, you are sadly in error. The budget shortfalls of recent years have left us rather behind the times. Besides, the Morgue is a bit public for this sort of thing. Right now, we are infested with reporters and television crews.” He paused. “And, of course, we don’t have your particular expertise at the City Morgue.”

  “Thank you,” Frock said. He gestured at the second skeleton. “But how hard could it be to identify someone who in life must have looked like, ahem, the Missing Link?”

  “Believe me, we’ve tried,” said D’Agosta. “Over the last twenty-four hours, we’ve checked every missing Tom, Dick, and Harry in the Instate area. Nothing. And as far as we can tell, no freak like this ever existed, let alone one who got himself lost and chewed up in the New York City sewers.”

  Frock seemed not to hear the answer to his question. His head sunk slowly to his chest and he remained motionless for several minutes. Except for an impatient cluck from Dr. Brambell, the laboratory was still. At last, Frock roused himself, sighed deeply, and nodded with what to Margo seemed like weary resignation. “Very well. I can give you a week. I have other business in the city to attend to. I assume you wish Dr. Green here to assist me?”

  Too late, Margo realized she hadn’t given any thought to why she had been invited to this secret gathering. But now it was clear. She knew that Frock trusted her completely. Together, they had solved the mystery of the Museum Beast killings. They must have figured, she thought, that Frock would work with me and nobody else.

  “Wait a minute,” she blurted. “I can’t do that.”

  All eyes turned toward her, and Margo realized she had spoken more sharply than she’d meant to. “What I mean is, I don’t think I can spare the time right now,” she stammered.

  Frock looked at her, comprehension in his eyes. More than anyone else, he understood this assignment was guaranteed to stir up fearsome memories.

  Director Merriam’s narrow features creased into a frown. “I’ll speak to Dr. Hawthorne,” she said. “You’ll be given whatever time necessary to assist the police.”

  Margo opened her mouth to protest, then decided against it. Too bad, she thought, that her curatorial appointment at the Museum was too recent for her to refuse.

  “Very good,” said Brambell, a tight smile briefly cracking his face. “I will be working alongside the two of you, of course. Before we disperse, I might just emphasize that the utmost discretion will be required. It was bad enough having to release the news that Pamela Wisher had been found dead and decapitated. If word ever gets out that our socialite was nibbled on after death… or perhaps before…” His voice trailed off, and he smoothed a hand over his bald pate.

  Frock glanced up sharply. “The teeth marks are not postmortem?”

  “That, Dr. Frock, is the question of the hour. Or one of them, at least. The Mayor and the Chief of Police are waiting rather impatiently for results.”

  Frock made no reply, and it was clear to everybody that the meeting was at an end. The group turned to go, most of them eager to distance themselves from the gaunt brownish things that lay on the specimen tables.

  As she walked past, the Museum Director turned briefly toward Margo. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” she said.

  Dr. Brambell took in Frock and Margo with one last sweep of his eyes, then followed the Director out the door.

  Last to leave was Lieutenant D’Agosta. In the doorway, he paused for a moment. “If you have to talk to anyone, talk to me.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then stopped, nodded, and turned away abruptly. The door closed behind him and Margo was alone: with Frock, Pamela Wisher, and the bizarrely malformed skeleton.

  Frock sat up in his wheelchair. “Lock the door please, Margo,” he said, “and get the rest of the lights up.” He wheeled himself toward the specimen table. “I guess you’d better wash and put on scrubs.”

  Margo glanced at the two skeletons. Then she looked toward her old professor.

  “Dr. Frock?” she began. “You don’t think this could be the work of a—”

  He turned suddenly, an odd expression on his ruddy face. Their eyes locked, and he shook his head.

  “Don’t,” he whispered fiercely. “Not until we’re certain.”

  Margo held his gaze for a moment. Finally she nodded and turned toward the bank of light switches. What had not been said between them was much more unsettling than the two grisly skeletons.

  = 6 =

  IN THE SMOKY recesses of the Cat’s Paw bar, Smithback wedged himself into a narrow telephone booth. Balancing his drink in one hand and squinting at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed the number of his office, wondering how many messages would be waiting for him this time.

  Smithback never doubted that he was one of the greatest journalists in New York. Probably the greatest. A year and a half ago, he’d brought the story of the Museum Beast to the world. And not in the usual dickless, detached way: He’d been there with D’Agosta and the others, struggling in the dark on that April night. On the strength of the book which quickly followed, he’d secured this position as Post crim
e correspondent. Now the Wisher thing had come along, and none too soon, either. Big stories were rarer than he could have guessed, and there were always others—like that stain-on-the-wall Bryce Harriman, crime reporter for the Times—out to scoop him. But if he played it right, this could be as big as the Mbwun story had been. Maybe bigger.

  A great journalist, he mused as he listened to the phone ring, adapts himself to the options offered him. Take the Wisher story. He had been totally unprepared for the mother. She’d been impressive. Smithback found himself embarrassed and deeply moved. Fired by those unfamiliar emotions, he’d written a new article for that morning’s edition, labeling Pamela Wisher the Angel of Central Park South and painting her death in tragic colors. But the real stroke of genius had been the $100,000 reward for information leading to the murderer. The idea had come to him in the middle of writing the story; he had carried the half-written piece and his reward idea straight into the office of the Post’s new editor, Arnold Murray. The man had loved it, authorizing it on the spot without even bothering to check with the publisher.

  Ginny, the pool secretary, came on the line excitedly. Twenty phone calls about the reward, all of them bogus.

  “That’s it?” Smithback asked, crestfallen.

  “Well, there was, like, this really weird visitor for you,” the secretary gushed. She was short and skinny, lived in Ronkonkoma, and had a crush on Smithback.

  “Yeah?”

  “He was dressed in rags and he smelled. God, I could hardly breathe. And he was, like, high or something.”

  Maybe it’s a hot tip, Smithback thought excitedly. “What did he want?”

  “He said he had information about the Wisher murder. He asked you to meet him in the Penn Station men’s room—”

  Smithback almost dropped his drink. “The men’s room? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “That’s what he said. You think he’s a pervert?” She spoke with undisguised relish.

  “Which men’s room?”

  He heard papers shuffling. “I’ve got it right here. North end, lower level, just to the left of the track 12 escalator. At eight o’clock tonight.”

  “What information, exactly?”

  “That was all he said.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and checked his watch: seven forty-five. The men’s room in Penn Station? I’d have to be crazy or desperate, he thought, to follow up a lead like that.

  Smithback had never been inside a men’s room at Penn Station before. Nobody he knew would ever go in one, either. As he opened the door into a vast, hot room, suffocating with the stench of urine and old diarrhea, he thought that, in fact, he’d rather piss his pants than use a Penn Station men’s room.

  He was five minutes late. Probably the guy’s gone already, Smithback thought gratefully. Assuming he’d ever been here in the first place. He was just about to duck back outside when he heard a gravelly voice.

  “William Smithback?”

  “What?” Smithback looked around quickly, scanning the deserted men’s room. Then he saw two legs descend in the farthest stall. The door opened. A small, skinny man stepped out and walked up to him unsteadily, his long face grimy, his clothes dark with grease and dirt, his hair matted and knotted into alarming shapes. A beard of indescribable color descended to twin points near his belly button, which was exposed through a long ragged tear in his shirt.

  “William Smithback?” the man repeated, peering at him through filmy eyes.

  “Who else?”

  Without another word, the man turned and moved back toward the rear of the men’s room. He stopped at the open last stall, then turned, waiting.

  “You have some information for me?” Smithback asked.

  “Come with me.” He gestured back toward the stall.

  “No way,” said Smithback. “If you want to talk, we can talk out here, but I’m not going in there with you, pal.”

  The man gestured again. “But this is the way to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Down.”

  Cautiously, Smithback approached the stall. The man had stepped inside and was standing behind the toilet, prying back a large piece of painted sheet metal that, Smithback now saw, covered a ragged hole in the dirty tile wall.

  “In there?” Smithback asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Where does it go?”

  “Down,” the man repeated.

  “Forget it,” said Smithback. He started to back away.

  The man held his gaze. “I’m supposed to bring you to Mephisto,” he said. “He has to talk to you about the murder of that girl. He knows important things.”

  “Give me a break.”

  The man continued to stare at him. “You can trust me,” he said simply.

  Somehow, despite the filth and the drugged eyes, Smithback found himself believing the man. “What things?”

  “You have to talk to Mephisto.”

  “Who’s this Mephisto?”

  “He’s our leader.” The man shrugged as if no other information was necessary.

  “Our?”

  The man nodded. “The Route 666 community.”

  Despite his uncertainty, Smithback felt a tingle of excitement. An organized community underground? That would make good copy all by itself. And if this Mephisto really knew something about the Wisher murder… “Where exactly is this Route 666 community?” he asked.

  “Can’t tell you. But I’ll show you the way.”

  “And your name?” he asked.

  “They call me Tail Gunner,” the man said, a small gleam of pride flaring in his eyes.

  “Look,” said Smithback. “I’d follow you, but you can’t expect me to just crawl into a hole like this. I could get ambushed, mugged, anything.”

  The man shook his head vehemently. “I’ll protect you. Everyone knows I’m Mephisto’s chief runner. You’ll be safe.”

  Smithback stared at the man: rheumy eyes, running nose, dirty wizard’s beard. He had come all the way to the offices of the Post. That was a lot of trouble for a guy who looked both broke and homeless.

  Then the image of Bryce Harriman’s smug face filled his mind. He imagined Bryce’s editor at the Times, asking him again how come that hack Smithback had gotten the story first.

  He liked that image.

  The man known as Tail Gunner held back the large piece of tin while Smithback clambered through. Once they were both inside he carefully maneuvered it back into place, propping it closed with some loose bricks.

  Looking around, Smithback found himself in a long, narrow tunnel. Water and steam pipes ran overhead like thick gray veins. The ceiling was low, but not so low that a man as tall as Smithback couldn’t stand upright. Evening light filtered in through ceiling grates spaced at hundred yard intervals.

  The reporter followed the stooped, low figure, moving ahead of him in the dim light. Once in a while the rumble of a nearby train would fill the dank space; Smithback could feel the sound more in his bones than his ears.

  They began walking northward along what seemed to be an endless tunnel. After ten or fifteen minutes, Smithback began to feel a nagging worry. “Excuse me,” he said, “but why the long walk?”

  “Mephisto keeps the nearest entrances to our community secret.”

  Smithback nodded, making a wide detour around the swollen body of a dead dog. It wasn’t surprising these tunnel dwellers were a little paranoid, but this was getting ridiculous. They’d walked far enough north to be under Central Park.

  Soon, the tunnel began to curve gently to the right. Smithback could make out a series of steel doors set into the thick concrete wall. Overhead a large pipe ran, water dripping from its padded covering. A sign on the padding read DANGER: CONTAINS ASBESTOS FIBERS. AVOID CREATING DUST. CANCER AND LUNG DISEASE HAZARD. Stopping and digging one hand into his rags, Tail Gunner extracted a key and placed it in the lock of the closest door.

  “How’d you get that key?” Smithback asked.

  “We have many skil
ls in our community,” the man replied, pulling open the door and ushering the journalist through.

  As the door shut behind Smithback, the blackness of night rushed forward to meet him. Realizing how much he’d instinctively relied on the dim light that had filtered down from the grates, Smithback had a sudden feeling of panic.

  “Don’t you have a flashlight?” he stammered.

  There was a scratching sound, then the flaring of a wooden match. In the flickering illumination, Smithback saw a series of cement steps leading downward as far as the matchlight penetrated.

  Tail Gunner snapped his wrist and the match went out.

  “Satisfied?” came the dull, monotonic voice.

  “No,” Smithback replied quickly. “Light another.”

  “When it is necessary.”

  Smithback felt his way down the staircase, his hands spread on the cool slick walls for balance. They descended for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, another match flared, and Smithback saw that the stairs ended in an enormous railroad tunnel, its silver tracks gleaming dully in the orange light.

  “Where are we now?” Smithback asked.

  “Track 100,” the man said. “Two levels down.”

  “Are we there yet?”

  The match flickered out, and darkness descended again.

  “Follow me,” came the voice. “When I say stop, you stop. Immediately.”

  They ventured onto the tracks. Smithback found himself fighting down panic once again as he stumbled over the iron rails.

  “Stop,” came the voice. Smithback halted as another match flared. “See that?” Tail Gunner said, pointing to a gleaming bar of metal with a bright yellow line painted next to it. “That’s a third rail. It’s electrified. Don’t step on it.”

  The match died out. Smithback heard the man take a few steps in the close, humid darkness.

  “Light another!” he cried.

  A match flared. Smithback took a broad step over the third rail.