Reliquary

by Douglas Preston

  “Several?” Horlocker asked.

  “Chief, in my opinion the evidence is beginning to point to more than one perp,” D’Agosta said. Brambell nodded his assent.

  Horlocker looked pained. “What, you think we’ve got two cannibalistic psychos running around? For Chrissakes, Vinnie, use your head. What we’ve got is a homeless serial killer who’s preying on his own kind. And once in a while a real person wanders into the wrong place at the wrong time—like Pamela Wisher, or that guy Bitterman—and gets their ass killed.”

  “A real person?” Pendergast murmured.

  “You know what I mean. A productive member of society. Somebody with an address.” Horlocker frowned, turning to D’Agosta. “I gave you a deadline, and I expected a lot more than this.”

  Waxie heaved himself up from his chair. “I’m convinced this is the work of a single perpetrator.”

  “Exactly,” said Horlocker, looking around the room, waiting for a challenge. “Now, we’ve got a homeless man, out of his gourd, probably living in Central Park somewhere, who thinks he’s the Museum Beast. And with this damn Times article, half the city’s going apeshit.” He turned to D’Agosta. “So how are you planning to handle it?”

  “Du calme, du calme, Chief,” Pendergast said soothingly. “I have often found it true that the louder a person speaks, the less they have to say.”

  Horlocker looked at him in disbelief. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “On the contrary, I’m the only one in this room who can talk to you like that,” Pendergast drawled. “So it is left up to me to point out that you have made a string of quite remarkable and unsupported assumptions. First, that the murderer is a homeless man. Second, that he lives in Central Park. Third, that he is psychotic. And fourth, that there is only one of them.” Pendergast gazed at the Chief almost benignly, like a patient parent humoring a fretful child. “You’ve managed to cram a remarkably large number of guesses into just one sentence, Chief Horlocker.”

  Horlocker stared at Pendergast, opened his mouth, closed it again. He took a step forward, then stopped. Then, with a single blazing glance at D’Agosta, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall, his aides scampering to keep up with him.

  There was silence in the wake of the slamming door. “What a bloody charade,” Margo heard Frock mutter as he moved restlessly in his wheelchair.

  D’Agosta sighed and turned to Brambell. “You’d better send a copy of your report to the Chief. Edit it down, okay, so only the really important stuff is there. And put in a lot of pictures; try to make it readable. Like at a fourth-grade level.”

  Brambell burst into delighted, high-pitched laughter. “Yes, indeed, Lieutenant,” he cackled, his bald dome incandescent in the glow of the projector. “I will do my literary best.”

  Margo watched as Waxie shot both of them a disapproving look, then started for the door himself. “I don’t find this humor at the expense of the Chief very professional,” he said. “I, for one, have more important things to do than joke around.”

  D’Agosta stared at him. “On second thought,” he said slowly, “make it third-grade level, so that Captain Waxie here can read it, too.”

  From his aerie in the projectionist’s booth high up on the rear wall, Smithback drew back from the observation slit and switched off his tape recorder with satisfaction. He waited, listening, as the last of the attendees left Linnaeus Hall.

  The projectionist came in from the control room, his features narrowing as he saw Smithback. “You said—”

  The journalist waved his hand. “I know what I said. I didn’t want to make you any more nervous than you already were. Here.” Smithback pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to him.

  “I wouldn’t take it, except the Museum’s salaries are ridiculous; you can’t even begin to live in New York…” the fellow nervously stuffed the bill into his pocket.

  “Yeah,” Smithback replied, taking a final glance out of the observation slit. “Listen, you don’t have to explain it to me. You’re contributing to freedom of the press. Go buy yourself a nice dinner, okay? And don’t worry. Even if they put me in jail, I wouldn’t reveal my sources.”

  “Jail?” the projectionist whinnied. Smithback soothed him with a pat on the back, then ducked out of the booth into the control room, clutching his notebook and tape recorder and passing into the old, dusty corridors he remembered so well. He was in luck: old Pocahontas—nicknamed for the ferocity with which she slashed rouge across her generous cheeks-was manning the north exit. He passed her in a flurry of smiles and salacious winks, his thumb discreetly covering the expiration date on his aging Museum ID card.

  = 19 =

  MARGO PUSHED through the revolving door of the 27th Precinct House, made a sharp left, and trotted down the long, steep staircase to the basement. The banister had been removed from the ancient yellow wall decades before, and she had to take care not to slip on the concrete steps. Despite the thickness of the stone foundations around her, she could hear muffled popping sounds below long before she reached the bottom of the staircase.

  As she yanked open the heavily soundproofed door on the landing, the muffled pops turned suddenly to roars. Wincing against the noise, she stepped forward to the duty desk. The officer recognized her and waved dismissively as she began to pull the letter of privilege and special permit from her carryall. “Take number seventeen,” he said over the blasts, passing over a dozen target sheets and a set of battered ear cups.

  Margo scribbled her name and entry time in the book, then turned and walked down the gallery, putting on the ear cups as she did so. Immediately, the roaring became bearable once more. To her left, the line of police officers in their open-topped booths ran almost unbroken to the far wall of the range: reloading, clipping targets, assessing results. Early evening was a popular time. And of the dozen twenty-five-yard indoor ranges scattered across the NYPD station houses, the 27th Precinct boasted the largest and best-equipped.

  Reaching booth seventeen, she removed her weapon, a box of 120-grain FMJ ammunition, and some spare clips from the carryall. Placing the ammunition on a ledge at her side, she inspected the small autoloader. The movements were as habitual now as they had been foreign a year before, when she’d first purchased the gun. Satisfied, she slapped a full clip home, pinned a standard target to the guide line, and ran it out to ten yards. Then she quickly settled into the Weaver stance, as she’d been taught: right hand on trigger, left hand gripping the right in the classic push-pull dynamic. Focusing on the front sight, she squeezed the trigger, letting her bent elbows absorb the recoil. She stopped a moment to squint at the target, then quickly emptied the rest of the ten-round clip toward it.

  She went through several more clips almost mechanically, settling into the standard firing range routine: reload, reset target, fire. When the ammunition box was half empty, she switched to silhouette targets at twenty-five yards. Emptying the final clip at last, she turned away to clean her weapon and was surprised to see Lieutenant D’Agosta behind her, arms folded, watching.

  “Hi,” she said, removing her ear cups and shouting over the din.

  D’Agosta nodded toward her target. “Let’s see how you did,” he mouthed, and waited for her to pull the silhouette in. “Nice rosette,” he said approvingly.

  Margo laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “I have you to thank for that. Just like I have you to thank for the permit.” She dumped the empty clips into her carryall, thinking about how strange it must have seemed to D’Agosta at the time: her bursting into his office three months after the conclusion of the Museum murders, asking him to arrange for a handgun permit. For protection, she’d told him. How could she have brought herself to explain the lingering fear, the sweat-drenched nightmares, the feeling of vulnerability that plagued her?

  “Brad told me you were a good student,” D’Agosta said. “I figured you’d get on well, that’s why I recommended him. But as for the permit, you don’t have me to thank. Pendergas
t took care of it personally. Now, let’s see what kind of gun Brad set you up with.”

  Margo handed it over. “It’s a baby Glock. Model 26, with a factory-modified ‘New York trigger.’ ”

  D’Agosta hefted it. “Nice and light. Short sight radius, though.”

  “Your friend Brad was very helpful with that. Taught me Kentucky windage, helped me set up the adjustable sight. I’ve done all my training with it. I’d probably be useless with anything else.”

  “I doubt it.” D’Agosta handed the subcompact back. “With scores like those, you could probably handle just about anything.” He nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get away from this noise. I’ll walk you out.”

  Margo stopped at the desk to sign out and return the ear cups, and was surprised when D’Agosta signed the log as well. “You were shooting?” she asked.

  “Why not?” D’Agosta turned to her. “Even old farts like me get rusty.” They stepped out of the range and began climbing the long, steep staircase. “Actually, cases like this get everybody on edge,” he said. “A little practice seemed like a good idea. Especially after that briefing.”

  Margo didn’t bother to reply. At the top of the steps, she stopped and waited for the Lieutenant to catch up. He emerged, puffing slightly, and they passed through the revolving door onto 31st Street. It was a cool evening, and traffic was light. Margo looked at her watch: almost eight. She could jog home, fix herself a light dinner, then try to catch up on her sleep.,

  “I’ll bet those damn stairs have caused more coronaries than all the pastry in New York,” D’Agosta said. “Doesn’t seem to have bothered you any, though.”

  Margo shrugged. “I’ve been working out.”

  “So I noticed. You’re not the same person I met eighteen months ago. Not on the outside, anyway. What’s your routine?”

  “Strength workout, mostly. You know, high weight, low reps.”

  D’Agosta nodded. “Couple times a week?”

  “I work the upper and lower muscle groups on alternating days. I try to work in some interval training, as well.”

  “What are you currently benching? One twenty?”

  Margo shook her head. “One thirty-five, actually. It’s nice, because for the first time I don’t have to change all those little weights on the bar. I can just use the forty-fives.”

  D’Agosta nodded again. “Not bad.” They started toward Sixth Avenue. “And has it worked?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, has it worked?”

  Margo frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, but even as she said the words, she understood.

  “No,” she said a moment later, in a lower voice. “Not completely, anyway.”

  “Don’t mean to be nosy,” D’Agosta replied, patting his pockets, absently searching for a cigar. “I’m a blunt kind of guy, just in case you didn’t know.” Finding one, he picked off the label with his fingernail and inspected the wrapper. “That shit at the Museum affected all of us, I suppose.”

  They reached the avenue, and Margo hesitated a moment, looking northward. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s just hard for me to talk about.”

  “I know,” D’Agosta said. “Especially now.” There was a brief silence as he lit up. “Take good care of yourself, Dr. Green.”

  Margo smiled slightly. “You too. And thanks again for this.” She patted her carryall, then eased into a jog, moving northward through the traffic, aiming for the West Side and home.

  = 20 =

  D’AGOSTA LOOKED AT his watch: 10:00 P.M., and they still had jack shit to show for all their work. Details of beat cops had checked the shelters, redemption centers, and soup kitchens, searching fruitlessly for word of anyone who might have an excessive interest in Mbwun. Hayward, whose knowledge of the underground homeless was becoming an ever more valuable resource, had led a number of special rousting details. Unfortunately, the results had also been disappointing: the moles had melted before their sweeps, disappearing into ever darker and more obscure recesses. Besides, as Hayward explained, the sweeps could only scratch the surface of the vast tunnel networks beneath the city’s streets. At least the stream of nutcases calling in to claim the Post reward was beginning to slow to a trickle. Maybe everyone was too worried about the Times report and the Bitterman murder.

  He looked down at his desk, still buried under the half-coordinated results of the sweeps. Then he glanced up at the precinct board for the hundredth time that evening, staring fixedly at the map as if the fierceness of his glare would force it to yield up an answer. What was the pattern? There had to be one; it was the first rule of detective work.

  He didn’t give a shit what Horlocker said: his gut told him that these killings were the work of more than one murderer. And it wasn’t only his gut—there were just too many; and the MOs, while similar, weren’t similar enough: some decapitated, some with their heads crushed, others simply mutilated. Perhaps it was some kind of truly screwed-up cult. But whatever it turned out to be, Horlocker’s threatening deadlines were time-consuming distractions. What was needed here was patient, methodical, intelligent detective work.

  D’Agosta laughed to himself. Christ, I’m sounding more like Pendergast all the time.

  From beyond the closed door of the storage room at one side of his office, he began to make out a series of odd shuffling noises. Hayward had gone in there a few minutes earlier on her coffee break. He stared at the door for a moment while the noises continued. At last, he rose, walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped in. Hayward stood in the middle of the storage room, crouched in an animal-like stance, her left hand stuck rigidly in front of her like an arrow, her right cocked back to the side of her head. Her hands were tensed and slightly curved, bent thumbs protruding upward. As he watched, she swiveled her small form through ninety degrees of the compass, reversed the position of her arms in a silent punching motion, then turned another ninety degrees. It looked like some kind of dangerous ballet.

  The movements were punctuated by sharp exhalations, not unlike the breathing she’d done during the confrontation in the tunnels. As he watched, she swiveled again, facing him this time, and brought her hands together in front of her with a slow, deliberate motion.

  “Need something, Lieutenant?” she asked.

  “Just an explanation of what the hell you’re doing,” he replied.

  Hayward straightened up slowly to her full height, released a deep breath, then looked up at him. “It’s one of the heian series of kata.”

  “What’s that again?”

  “Formal exercises of shotokan karate,” she said. Then she caught his look. “It helps keep me relaxed, in shape,” she explained. “And it is my break, Lieutenant.”

  “Then get on with it.” D’Agosta turned toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “What’s your belt?”

  She looked up at him for a moment. “White,” she replied at last.

  “I see.”

  Hayward smiled slightly. “Shotokan is the original Japanese school of karate. They don’t usually believe in all sorts of pastel belt colors, Lieutenant. There are six degrees of white belt, three brown, then black.”

  D’Agosta nodded. “So what degree are you?” he asked curiously.

  “I go for my sankyu brown belt examination next month.”

  From his office beyond D’Agosta could hear the rattle of a knob. Stepping out of the supply room and closing the door behind him, he found himself looking at the corpulent form of Captain Waxie. Without a word, Waxie sauntered over to the precinct board. He studied the riot of red and white pins intently, hands clasped behind his back.

  “There’s a pattern here,” he said at last.

  “Really?” D’Agosta asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

  Waxie nodded sagely, keeping his back turned.

  D’Agosta said nothing. He knew he was going to regret to his dying day bringing Waxie into the case.

  “It originates here.” Waxi
e’s finger hit a green spot on the map with a soft thump. D’Agosta saw that he had fingered the Ramble, the wildest area of Central Park.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Simple,” said Waxie. “The Chief had a talk with the top actuary in human resources. He looked at the murder locations, did a best-fit linear analysis, and said they were radiating right from this spot. See? The deaths form a semicircle around this point. The Belvedere Castle murder was the key.”

  He turned. “Out there in the Ramble, there are rocks, caves, dense woods. Lots of homeless, too. It’s a perfect hideout. That’s where we’ll find the killer.”

  This time, D’Agosta was unable to keep the incredulity off his face. “Let me get this straight. Some insurance dweeb in personnel gave you this tip? Did he try to sell you on the savings plan, too?”

  Waxie frowned, his jowly cheeks turning a rich crimson. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Vinnie. It wasn’t appropriate in the meeting this afternoon, and it isn’t appropriate here.”

  “Look, Jack,” D’Agosta said, struggling to keep his patience. “What the hell would an actuary, even a police actuary, know about a murder pattern? That just isn’t enough. You have to take into account ingress, egress, everything. Besides, the Belvedere Castle murder is the one that least fits the pattern.” Then he gave up. There was no point in telling Waxie anything. Horlocker was one of those chiefs who loved specialists, experts, and consultants. And Waxie was such a yes-man that…

  “I’m going to need this map,” Waxie said.

  D’Agosta stared at the broad back in front of him. As he did, a light suddenly turned on inside his head. Now he knew what this was all about.

  He stood up. “Be my guest,” he said. “The primary case files are in these cabinets here, and Sergeant Hayward has some valuable—”

  “I won’t be needing her,” said Waxie. “Just the precinct board and the files. Have them sent over to my office by eight tomorrow morning. Suite 2403. They’re moving me here to headquarters.”