Reliquary

by Douglas Preston

“Wake up, buddy,” Carlin said, patting his cheek, bending forward to examine the nasty gash across the man’s forehead. The roiling green wall of tear gas was coming closer.

  The man’s eyes fluttered open.

  “You okay?”

  “Shit,” the man said, trying to sit up.

  “Can you think straight?” Carlin asked. “What’s your name?”

  “Beal,” came the muffled reply.

  The gas was almost on them. Carlin reached down and unstrapped the mask from the man’s service belt. “I’m gonna put this on you now, okay?”

  The man named Beal nodded vacantly. Carlin strapped on the mask and turned the D-valve. Then he helped him carefully to his feet.

  “I can’t walk,” Beal said through the mask.

  “Lean on us,” Carlin said. “We’ll get you out of here.” The cloud had now enveloped them, a strange greenish fog lit by the flickering of the dying flares. They moved forward slowly, half-dragging the man along, until they reached Hayward, who was adjusting the gas mask around the head of the other wounded policeman. “Let’s go,” she said.

  They moved carefully through the tear gas. The surrounding area was deserted; the homeless had fled the gas and Miller, leading the group of officers, had followed behind them. Hayward tried her radio, but she was unable to raise anybody through the dense static. In the far distance, they could hear coughs and curses as the stragglers hiding in the warren of tunnels below were forced to the surface by the gas. Now she could make out the staircase. The airflow was slowly spreading the tear gas through the tunnels and up to the next level, filling their escape route. But Hayward also knew it would drive the rest of the moles to the surface. She sure as hell didn’t want to be around when they came out.

  As they reached the stairs, Beal suddenly doubled up, retching into the mask. Turning quickly from the other man, Hayward tore Beal’s mask off. The officer’s head sagged forward, then whipped back as the gas hit him. His limbs stiffened and he thrashed about, tearing himself from their grasp and collapsing to the ground, clutching at his face.

  “We gotta move, now!” McMahon cried.

  “You go,” said Hayward. “I’m not gonna leave this man here.”

  McMahon stood there indecisively. Carlin glared at him. Finally, McMahon scowled. “Okay, I’m with you.”

  With McMahon’s help, Hayward lifted the gasping Beal to his feet. She nuzzled her mask close to the man’s ear. “Either you walk,” she said quietly, “or we all drown. It’s as simple as that, good buddy.”

  = 47 =

  THE NYPD’S CRISIS control center had been brought on-line for the drainage operation. As Margo entered, trotting behind Pendergast and D’Agosta, she noticed several banks of communications equipment still sitting on dollies. Uniformed officers were standing over benches overflowing with grid maps. Heavy wires, wound with electrical tape, snaked across the floor in thick black rivulets.

  Horlocker and Waxie sat at a long table, their backs to the communications gear. Even from the door Margo could see that their faces were slick with sweat. A small man with a brushy little mustache sat at a computer terminal nearby.

  “What’s this?” Horlocker asked as they arrived. “The ladies’ visiting committee?”

  “Sir,” D’Agosta said, “you can’t drain the Reservoir.”

  Horlocker tilted his head. “D’Agosta, I don’t got time for you right now. I’ve got my hands full, dealing with the Wisher rally on top of this shit. And meanwhile the roust of the century is taking place underground. I’ve got the force spread thin as a pancake. So just write me a letter, okay?” He paused. “What, you guys been swimming?”

  “The Reservoir,” Pendergast said, stepping forward, “is loaded with deadly lilies. It’s the plant the Mbwun beast needed to survive. The plant that Kawakita derived his drug from. And it’s ready to go to seed.” He unshouldered the muddy plant and slapped it onto the table. “There it is. Riddled with glaze. Now we know where they’ve been growing their supply.”

  “What the hell?” Horlocker said. “Get that goddamn thing off my desk.”

  Waxie broke in. “Hey, D’Agosta, you just finished convincing us that your little green monsters in the sewers needed to be flushed out. So now we’re doing it, and you want to change your mind? Forget it.”

  D’Agosta stared distastefully at Waxie’s bulging, sweating neckline. “You sorry sack of shit. It was your idea to drain the goddamn Reservoir in the first place.”

  “Now listen, Lieutenant, you watch—”

  Pendergast held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please.” He turned to Horlocker. “There will be plenty of blame to apportion at some later time. The problem now is that, once those seeds hit saltwater, the reovirus that carries the drug will be activated.” His lips twitched briefly. “Dr. Green’s experiments show this drug capable of affecting a wide variety of life-forms, from unicellular organisms all the way up the food chain to man. Would you care to be the one responsible for global ecological disaster?”

  “This is nothing but a big load of—” Waxie began to blurt.

  Horlocker laid a hand on his sleeve, then glanced at the large plant soiling the papers littering the command desk. “Doesn’t look that dangerous to me,” he said.

  “There’s no doubt,” Margo said. “It’s Liliceae mbwunensis. And it’s carrying a genetically engineered modification of the Mbwun reovirus.”

  Horlocker looked from the plant to Margo, then back to the plant again.

  “I can understand your uncertainty,” Pendergast said calmly. “A lot has happened since this morning’s meeting. All I ask is twenty-four hours. Dr. Green here will run the necessary tests. We’ll bring you proof that this plant is loaded with the drug. And we’ll bring you proof that exposure to saltwater will release the reovirus into the ecosystem. I know we’re right. But if we’re wrong, I’ll withdraw from the case and you can drain the Reservoir at your leisure.”

  “You should have withdrawn on day one.” Waxie sniffed. “You’re FBI. This isn’t even your jurisdiction!”

  “Now that we know the manufacture and distribution of a drug is involved, I could make it my jurisdiction,” Pendergast said evenly. “And very quickly. Would that satisfy you?”

  “Just a minute, now,” said Horlocker, darting a cold look in Waxie’s direction. “There’s no need for that. But why not just pour in a good dose of weed killer?”

  “Offhand, I can’t think of any herbicides that could reliably kill all the plants without harming the millions of Manhattan residents who rely on this water,” Pendergast said. “Can you, Dr. Green?”

  “Only thyoxin,” she said, pausing to think. “But that would take twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight, to do the job. It’s very slow acting.” Then she frowned. Thyoxin. That word came up recently, I’m sure of it. But where? And then she remembered: it was one of the fragmentary words in Kawakita’s burned notebook.

  “Well, we’d better pour it in anyway.” Horlocker rolled his eyes. “I’ll have to alert the EPA. Jesus, this is turning into one hell of a screwup.” Margo watched him glance at the frightened-looking man at the nearby workstation, who was still hunched over his monitor, an exaggerated look of concentration on his face.

  “Stan!”

  The man jerked up.

  “Stan, I guess you’d better abort the drainage sequence,” Horlocker said with a sigh. “At least until we get this figured out. Waxie, get Masters on the horn. Tell him to proceed with clearing the tunnels, but let him know we’re going to need to keep the homeless on ice an extra twenty-four hours.”

  Margo watched as the man’s face grew paler.

  Horlocker turned back to the engineer. “You heard me, Duffy?” he asked.

  “I can’t do that, sir,” the man named Duffy said in the smallest of voices.

  There was a silence.

  “What?” Pendergast demanded.

  Looking at the expression on Pendergast’s face, Margo felt a stab of fear. She’d assumed their
only problem lay in convincing Horlocker.

  “Whaddaya mean?” Horlocker exploded. “Just tell the computer to shut it down.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Duffy said. “As I explained to Captain Waxie here, once the sequence is initiated, everything is gravity-fed. Countless tons of water are moving through the system. The hydraulics are all automatic, and—”

  Horlocker slammed his hand down on the table. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I can’t stop it with the computer,” came the strangled response.

  “He never said anything about that to me,” Waxie whined. “I swear—”

  Horlocker silenced him with a savage look. Lowering his voice, he turned back to the engineer. “I don’t want to hear what you can’t do. Just tell me what you can do.”

  “Well,” Duffy said reluctantly, “someone could go underneath the Main Shunt and turn off the valves manually. But it would be a dangerous operation. I don’t think those manual workings have been used since the automated system went on line. That’s at least a dozen years. And forget stopping the Reservoir inflow. We’ve already got eight-foot aqueduct pipe bringing down millions of cubic feet from upstate. Even if you succeed in closing those valves manually, you couldn’t stop the water. When it enters the Reservoir from the north, it’ll raise the level over the banks. Everything will just pour into Central Park and—”

  “I don’t care if you create Lake Ed Koch. Take Waxie, get the men you need, and do it.”

  “But sir,” Waxie said, eyes wide, “I think it would be better if…” his voice trailed off.

  Duffy’s small moist hands were working busily at nothing. “It’s very difficult to get down there,” he babbled. “It’s directly beneath the Reservoir, suspended under the valve works, and there’s rushing water and someone might get hurt—”

  “Duffy?” Horlocker interrupted. “Get the hell out of here and shut those valves. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Duffy said, his face paler than ever.

  Horlocker turned toward Waxie. “You started it. You stop it. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” Waxie said.

  “What?”

  “I mean, no, sir.”

  There was a silence. Nobody moved.

  “Get your asses moving, then!” Horlocker roared.

  Margo stepped aside as Waxie lurched to his feet and followed Duffy reluctantly out the door.

  = 48 =

  THE ENTRANCE TO the Whine Cellar—one of a new breed of swank basement clubs that had begun sprouting up around Manhattan over the last year—was little more than a narrow Art Deco doorway, placed like an afterthought in the lower left corner of the Hampshire House facade. From his vantage point beside the door, Smithback could make out a sea of heads, stretching east and west down the avenue street, punctuated by the ancient gingko trees that lined the entrance to Central Park. Many people were bowed in silent reverence. Others—young men in rolled-up white cotton shirts mostly, with their ties tugged down—were drinking beer out of paper sacks and high-fiving each other. In the second row, he noticed a girl holding up a poster reading PAMELA, WE WILL NEVER FORGET. A tear rolled slowly down one cheek. Smithback couldn’t help but notice that in her other hand, the girl held a copy of his recent article. While a hush had fallen over the closest rows, in the distance Smithback could hear the shouts and yells of marchers, mingling with the even more distant crackle of bullhorns, wail of sirens, and honking of car horns.

  Beside him, Mrs. Wisher was now placing a candle beside the large portrait of her daughter. Her hand was steady, but the flame flickered wildly in the cool night breeze. The silence deepened as she knelt in private prayer. Then she stood and moved toward a tall bank of flowers, allowing a series of friends to move forward in turn and place their own candles next to hers. A minute went by, then another. Mrs. Wisher took a final look at the photograph, now encircled by a bracelet of candles. For a moment she seemed to stagger, and Smithback quickly caught her arm. She looked at him, blinking in surprise, as if she had suddenly forgotten her purpose. Then her eyes lost their faraway look; her grip grew briefly firm, almost painful; and easing off his arm, she turned to face the crowd.

  “I want to express my sorrow,” she said clearly, “to all mothers who have lost children to crime, to murder, to the sickness that has gripped this city and this country. That is all.”

  A number of television cameras had managed to squeeze toward the front of the crowd, but Mrs. Wisher simply raised her head defiantly. “To Central Park West!” she cried. “And the Great Lawn!”

  Smithback stayed close to her as the crowd surged westward, propelled as if by its own internal engine. Despite all the drinking by some of the younger marchers, everything seemed under control. It was almost as if the crowd was conscious of participating in an unforgettable event. They passed Seventh Avenue: an unbroken string of red brake lights, motionless, receding almost to the limits of vision. The sound of police whistles and horns was now one long continuous wail, a steady background noise that came from all directions. Smithback dropped back a moment to consult the Post timetable, treading on the handmade shoes of the Viscount Adair as he did so. Almost nine-thirty. Right on schedule. Three more stops, all along Central Park West. Then they’d turn into the Park for the final midnight vigil.

  As they made the grand sweep around Columbus Circle, Smithback glanced down Broadway, a wide gash of gray between the unbroken rows of buildings. The police had moved more quickly here, and he could see that the road was barricaded and deserted as far south as Times Square, looking strangely vacant, the pavement shining black beneath countless street lamps. A few cops and squad cars were manning the far end; the rest of the police force was probably still mobilizing, scrambling to find ways to control traffic and keep the march from growing even larger. Maybe that’s why more of them weren’t on the scene yet. He shook his head, amazed at how this one diminutive woman had brought all of Midtown to a virtual standstill. There was no way they could ignore her after this. And no way they could ignore his articles, for that matter. Already, he’d mapped everything out. First, an in-depth report of the event, written literally at the right hand of Mrs. Wisher, but naturally with his own special slant. Then a series of profiles, interviews, and puff pieces, leading up to his book. Figure half a million bucks in royalties for domestic hardcover sales, perhaps twice that for the paperback, and with foreign rights bringing in at least—

  His calculations were interrupted by a strange rumbling noise. It stopped, then came again, so deep it seemed more vibration than sound. The noise level around him dropped for a moment: apparently, others had heard it, too. Suddenly, two blocks down the long empty length of Broadway, Smithback saw a manhole cover lift from the asphalt and fall back onto the street. A cloud of what appeared to be steam drifted skyward; then an impossibly dirty man clambered up, sneezing and coughing in the glare of the streetlight, filthy rags of clothes fluttering loosely around his limbs. For a moment, Smithback thought it was Tail Gunner, the haunted-looking man that had taken him to Mephisto. Then another figure emerged from the manhole, blood flowing freely from a cut on his temple; another followed him, then another.

  There was an audible intake of breath at Smithback’s side. He turned and saw that Mrs. Wisher had faltered, staring in the direction of the wild-looking men. He quickly drew alongside her.

  “What is this?” she said, almost in a whisper.

  Suddenly, another manhole cover popped free closer to the march, and a series of gaunt figures clambered out, disoriented and coughing. Smithback stared in disbelief at the bedraggled group, unable to tell age or even sex beneath the matted hair and crusted dirt. Some held pipes or ragged pieces of rebar; others carried bats and broken police batons. One was wearing what looked like a brand-new police cap. The crowd of marchers nearest Broadway had stopped and were staring at the spectacle. Smithback could hear a low undercurrent of sound: worried muttering from the older, elegantly dressed people, scoffs a
nd hoots of derision from the young white-collar turks and desk jockeys. A cloud of green mist sighed out of the IRT station beneath the Circle, and more homeless emerged, scurrying up the steps. As additional bodies clambered out of manholes and the subway, a ragged army began to form, looks of blinking bewilderment quickly turning to hostility.

  One of the ragged men stepped forward, glaring at the front rank of marchers. Then he opened his mouth in an inarticulate roar of frustration and rage, a long piece of rebar held over his head like a staff.

  A great cry arose from the throats of the homeless, who raised their hands in answer. Smithback could see that every hand held something—rocks, chunks of cement, pieces of iron. Many had cuts and bruises. It looked like they were preparing for a battle—or had just come from one.

  What the hell is this? Smithback thought. Where have all these guys come from? For a moment he wondered if it was some kind of organized mass-scale robbery. Then he remembered what Mephisto had told him as he’d crouched down there in the dark: we will find other ways to make our voices heard. Not now, he thought. This is the worst possible time.

  A wisp of smoke drifted closer, and several of the nearest marchers began to choke and gasp. In an instant, Smithback’s eyes began to sting painfully, and he realized that what he’d thought was steam was actually tear gas. Farther down the empty stretch of Broadway, Smithback saw what looked like a small group of policemen—their blue uniforms torn and grimy—stumble up a subway staircase, then stagger in the direction of the distant squad cars. Shit, something big’s happened down there, he thought.

  “Where’s Mephisto?” one of the homeless yelled out.

  Another voice rose up. “I heard he was paddied!”

  The mob grew increasingly agitated. “Goddamn cops!” someone shouted. “I bet they beat his ass!”

  “What are these scumbags doing, anyway?” Smithback heard a young voice behind him ask.

  “Don’t know,” came an answer. “Too late at night to cash a welfare check.” There was scattered laughter and hooting.