He pressed the panel appraisingly. It held fast. When he kicked it savagely, it flew open with a screech. A narrow service tunnel slanted steeply downward, opening onto the ceiling of the subbasement beneath. One floor below him, a thread of water trickled along like an inky ribbon.
Pendergast pulled the panel back into place, made another marking on the blueprint, and continued on.
“Pendergast!” came the faint cry. “This is Doctor Frock. Can you hear me?”
Pendergast stopped, his brows knitted in surprise. He opened his mouth to answer. Suddenly, he froze. There was a peculiar smell in the air. Leaving his bag open on the floor, he ducked into a storage room, locked the door behind him, and reached up, snapping off his light.
The door had a small wired-glass window set into its middle, grimy and cracked. Fishing in a pocket, he drew out a tissue, spat on it, rubbed the window and peered out.
Something big and dark had just entered the lower edge of his field of view. Pendergast could hear a snuffling sound, like a winded horse breathing heavy and fast. The smell grew stronger. In the dim light, Pendergast could see a muscled withers, covered with coarse black hair.
Moving slowly, taking short, choppy breaths through his nose, Pendergast reached inside his suit jacket and drew out the .45. In the darkness, he passed his finger across the cylinder, checking the loaded chambers. Then, steadying the revolver with both hands and levelling it at the door, he began to back up. As he moved away from the window, the shape dropped from view. But he knew beyond any doubt that it was still out there.
There was a faint bump on the door, followed by a low scratching. Pendergast tightened his grip on the revolver as he saw, or thought he saw, the doorknob begin to turn. Locked or not, the rickety door wouldn’t stop whatever was outside. There was another muffled thump, then silence.
Pendergast quickly peered out the window. He could see nothing. He held the revolver at twelve-o’clock with one hand and placed his other hand on the door. In the listening silence, he counted to five. Then, quickly, he unlocked the door and swung it open, moving into the center of the passageway and around a corner. At the far end of the hall a dark shape paused at another door. Even in the dim light he could make out the strong, sloping movements of a quadruped. Pendergast was the most rational of men, but he barked a brief laugh of disbelief as he saw the creature claw for the doorknob. The lights in the hallway dimmed, then brightened. Pendergast slowly dropped to one knee, held the gun in combat position, and took aim. The lights dimmed a second time. He saw the creature sit back on its haunches and then rise up, turning toward him. Pendergast centered on the side of the head, let his breath flow out. Then he slowly squeezed the trigger.
There was a roar and a flash as Pendergast relaxed to absorb the kickback. For a split second he saw a white streak move straight up the beast’s cranium. Then the creature was gone, around a far corner, and the hallway was empty.
Pendergast knew exactly what had happened. He had seen that streak of white once before, hunting bear: the bullet had ricocheted off the skull, taking a strip of hair and skin while exposing the bone. The perfectly placed shot with a metal-jacketed, chromium-alloy-tipped .45 caliber bullet had bounced off the creature’s skull like a spitball. Pendergast slumped forward and let his gun hand sink toward the floor as the lights flickered again and went out.
47
From where he’d stood next to the hors d’oeuvres tables, Smithback had a great view of Wright standing at the microphone, gesturing, voice booming out from a nearby loudspeaker. Smithback hadn’t bothered to listen; he knew, with gloomy certainty, that Rickman would provide him with a hard copy of the speech later. Now, the speech was over, and the crowd had been eagerly piling into the new exhibition for the past half hour. But Smithback remained where he stood, oblivious. He gazed once again down at the table, debating whether to eat a fat gulf prawn or a tiny blini au caviare. He took the blini, actually five, and began grazing. The caviar, he noted, was gray and not salty—real sturgeon, not the fake whitefish they tried to pass off at publishing parties and the like.
He snagged a prawn anyway, made it two, followed by a spoonful of ceviche and three crackers covered with Scottish smoked cod roe with capers and lemon, a few paper-thin slices of cold red Kobe beef, no steak tartare, thank you very much, but definitely two pieces of that uni sushi … His gaze followed the array of delicacies that went on for fifty feet worth of table. He had never seen anything like it and he wasn’t about to let any of it get away.
The band suddenly faltered, and almost simultaneously somebody elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.
“Hey!” Smithback started to say, when, looking up, he almost instantly found himself engulfed in a shoving, grunting, screaming mass of people. He was thrown against the banquet table; he struggled to regain his footing, slipped and fell, then rolled under the table. He crouched, watching the thundering feet go by. There were screams and the horrifying noises of bodies crashing full tilt into one another. He heard a few snatches of shouted phrases: “… dead body!” “… murder!” Had the killer struck again, in the middle of thousands of people? It wasn’t possible.
A woman’s shoe, black felt with a painfully high spiked heel, bounced under the table and came to rest near his nose. He shoved it away with disgust, noticed he was still clutching a morsel of shrimp in his hand, and bolted it down. Whatever was happening, it was happening fast. It was shocking how quickly panic could sweep a crowd.
The table shuddered and slid, and Smithback saw an enormous platter land just beyond the fringe of the tablecloth. Crackers and Camembert went flying. He grabbed crackers and cheese off his frilled shirt and started eating. Twelve inches from his face, he could see scores of feet stamping and churning a loaf of pâté into mud. Another platter landed with a splat, spraying caviar across the floor in a gray mist.
The lights dimmed. Smithback quickly shoved a wedge of Camembert into his mouth, holding it between his teeth, realizing suddenly that he was eating while the biggest event he’d ever seen was being handed him on a silver platter. He checked his pockets for the microcassette recorder as the lights dimmed and brightened.
Smithback talked as fast as he could, mouth close to the microphone, hoping his voice would come through over the deafening roar of humanity. This was an incredible opportunity. The hell with Rickman. Everyone was going to want this story. He hoped that if any other journalists were at the party, they were running like hell to get out.
The lights flickered again.
A hundred thousand for the advance, he wasn’t going to take a dime less. He was here, he’d covered the story from the beginning. Nobody could touch his access.
The lights flickered for a third time, then went out.
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Smithback. “Somebody turn on the lights!”
* * *
Margo pushed Frock around another corner, then waited while he called again for Pendergast. The sound echoed forlornly.
“This is growing pointless,” said Frock in exasperation. “There are several larger storage rooms in this section. Maybe he’s inside one and can’t hear us. Let’s try a few. It’s all we have left.” He grunted as he fished in a jacket pocket. “Don’t leave home without it,” he smiled, holding up a curator’s master key.
Margo unlocked the first door and peered into the gloom. “Mr. Pendergast?” she called out. Metal shelves stacked with enormous bones rose out of the gloom. A big dinosaur skull, the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, sat near the door on a wooden skid, still partially encased in matrix, black teeth gleaming dully.
“Next!” said Frock.
The lights dimmed.
No answer in the next storage room, either.
“One more try,” Frock said. “Over there, across the hall.”
Margo stopped at the indicated door, marked PLEISTOCENE—12B, noting as she did so a stairwell door at the far end of the hall. She was pushing open the storage room door as the lights flickered a second time.
“This is—” she began.
Suddenly, a sharp explosion resounded down the narrow hall. Margo looked up, heart pounding, trying to locate the source of the noise. It seemed to have come from around a corner they had not yet explored.
Then the lights went out.
“If we wait a moment,” Frock said finally, “the emergency backup system will come on.”
Only the faint creaking of the building pierced the silence. The seconds stretched into a minute, two minutes.
Then Margo noticed a strange smell, goatish, fetid, almost rank. With a sob of despair, she remembered where she had smelled it once before: in the darkened exhibition.
“Do you—?” she whispered.
“Yes,” hissed Frock. “Get inside and lock the door.”
Breathing fast, Margo groped at the doorframe. She called out quietly as the smell grew stronger. “Dr. Frock? Can you follow the sound of my voice?”
“There’s no time for that,” came his whisper. “Please, forget about me and get inside.”
“No,” said Margo. “Just come toward me slowly.”
She heard his chair rattle. The smell was growing overpowering, the earthy, rotting odor of a swamp, mixed with the sweet smell of warm raw hamburger. Margo heard a wet snuffling.
“I’m right here,” she whispered to Frock. “Oh, hurry, please.”
The darkness seemed oppressive, a suffocating weight. She cringed against the doorframe, flattening herself to the wall, fighting down an urge to flee.
In the pitch black, wheels rattled and the chair bumped gently against her leg. She grabbed its handles and pulled Frock inside. Turning, she slammed the door closed, locked it, and then sank to the floor, her body rocked by noiseless sobs. Silence filled the room.
There was a scraping on the door, soft at first, then louder and more insistent. Margo shrank away, banging her shoulder against the frame of the wheelchair. In the dark, she felt Frock gently take her hand.
48
D’Agosta sat up amid the broken glass, grabbed for his radio, and watched the retreating backs of the last guests, their screams and shouts fading.
“Lieutenant?” One of his officers, Bailey, was getting up from underneath another broken case. The Hall was a shambles: artifacts broken and scattered across the floor; broken glass everywhere; shoes, purses, pieces of clothing. Everybody had left the gallery except D’Agosta, Bailey, and the dead man. D’Agosta looked briefly at the headless body, registering the gaping wounds in the chest, the clothing stiffened by dried blood, the man’s insides generously exposed like so much stuffing. Dead for some time, apparently. He looked away, then looked back quickly. The man was wearing a policeman’s uniform.
“Bailey!” he shouted. “Officer down! Who is this man?”
Bailey came over, his face pale in the dim light. “Hard to say. But I think Fred Beauregard had a big old Academy ring like that.”
“No shit,” D’Agosta whistled under his breath. He bent closer, got the badge number.
Bailey nodded. “That’s Beauregard, Loo.”
“Christ!” D’Agosta said, straightening up. “Wasn’t he on his forty-eight?”
“That’s correct. Last tour was Wednesday afternoon.”
“Then he’s been in here since—” D’Agosta started. His face hardened into a scowl. “That fucking Coffey, refusing to sweep the exhibition. I’m gonna tear him a new asshole.”
Bailey helped him up. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll bind it up later,” D’Agosta said tersely. “Where’s McNitt?”
“I don’t know. Last I looked, he was caught in the crowd.”
Ippolito stepped from around the far corner, talking into his radio. D’Agosta’s respect for the Security Director went up a notch. He may not be the brightest guy, but he’s got balls when it comes to the pinch.
The lights dimmed.
“There’s panic in the Hall of the Heavens,” said Ippolito, ear at his radio. “They say the security wall is coming down.”
“Those idiots! That’s the only exit!” He raised his own radio. “Walden! You copy? What’s going on?”
“Sir, it’s chaos here! McNitt just came out of the exhibition. He got pretty roughed up in there. We’re at the exhibition entrance, trying to slow the crowd, but it’s no use. There’s a lot of people getting trampled, Lieutenant.”
The lights dimmed a second time.
“Walden, is the emergency door coming down over the exit to the Rotunda?”
“Just a second.” For a moment, the radio buzzed. “Shit, yes! It’s halfway down and still dropping! People are jammed into that door like cattle, it’s gonna crush a dozen or two—”
Suddenly, the exhibition went black. A dull crash of something heavy toppling to the ground momentarily overpowered the cries and screams.
D’Agosta pulled out his flashlight. “Ippolito, you can raise the door with the manual override, right?”
“Right. Anyway, the backup power should come on in a second—”
“We can’t wait around for that, let’s get the hell over there. And, for Chrissake, be careful.”
Gingerly, they picked their way back toward the exhibition entrance, Ippolito leading the way through the welter of glass, broken wood, and debris. Broken pieces of once-priceless artifacts lay strewn about. The shouting and screaming grew louder as they neared the Hall of the Heavens.
Standing behind Ippolito, D’Agosta could see nothing in the vast blackness of the Hall. Even the votive candles had guttered. Ippolito was playing his flashlight around the entrance. Why isn’t he moving? D’Agosta wondered irritably. Suddenly, Ippolito jerked backward, retching. His flashlight dropped to the ground and rolled away in the darkness.
“What the hell?” D’Agosta shouted, running forward with Bailey. Then he stopped short.
The huge Hall was a shambles. Shining his flashlight into the gloom, D’Agosta was reminded of earthquake footage he’d seen on the evening news. The platform was broken into several pieces, the lectern splintered and shattered. The bandstand was deserted, chairs toppled over, crushed instruments lying in heaps. The floor was a maelstrom of food, clothing, printed programs, toppled bamboo trees, and trampled orchids, twisted and smashed into a strange landscape by the thousands of panicked feet.
D’Agosta brought the flashlight in toward the exhibition entrance itself. The huge wooden stelae surrounding the entrance had collapsed in giant pieces. D’Agosta could see limp arms and legs protruding from beneath the intricately carved columns.
Bailey rushed over. “There’re at least eight people crushed here, Lieutenant. I don’t think any of them are still alive.”
“Any of them ours?” D’Agosta asked.
“I’m afraid so. Looks like McNitt and Walden, and one of the plainclothesmen. There are a couple of guard’s uniforms here, too, and three civilians, I think.”
“All dead? Every one of them?”
“Far as I can tell. I can’t budge these columns.”
“Shit.” D’Agosta looked away, rubbing his forehead. A loud thud resonated from across the Hall.
“That’s the security door closing,” said Ippolito, wiping his mouth. He knelt at Bailey’s side. “Oh, no. Martine … Christ, I can’t believe it.” He turned to D’Agosta. “Martine here was guarding the back stairwell. He must have come over to help control the crowd. He was one of my best men…”
D’Agosta threaded his way between the broken columns and moved out into the Hall, dodging the upturned tables and broken chairs. His hand was still bleeding freely. There were several other still forms scattered about, whether dead or alive D’Agosta couldn’t tell. When he heard screaming from the far end of the Hall, he shined his light toward the noise. The metal emergency door was fully shut, and a crowd of people were pressed against it, pounding on the metal and shouting. Some of them turned around as D’Agosta’s light illuminated them.
D’Agosta ran over to the group, ignoring his squawking radio. “
Everybody calm down, and move away! This is Lieutenant D’Agosta of the New York City police.”
The crowd quieted a little, and D’Agosta called Ippolito over. Scanning the group, D’Agosta recognized Wright, the Director; Ian Cuthbert, head of this whole farce; some woman named Rickman who seemed pretty important—basically, the first forty or so people who’d entered the exhibition. First in, last out.
“Listen up!” he shouted. “The Security Director’s going to raise the emergency door. Everybody, please step back.”
The crowd moved aside, and D’Agosta involuntarily groaned. There were several limbs pinned under the heavy metal door. The floor was slick with blood. One of the limbs was moving feebly, and he could hear faint screaming from the far side of the door.
“Dear Jesus,” he whispered. “Ippolito, open the son of a bitch.”
“Shine your light over here.” Ippolito pointed to a small keypad next to the door, then crouched and punched in a series of numbers.
They waited.
Ippolito looked nonplussed. “I can’t understand—” He punched in the numbers again, more slowly this time.
“There’s no power,” said D’Agosta.
“Shouldn’t matter,” said Ippolito, frantically punching a third time. “The system’s got redundant backups.”
The crowd started to murmur.
“We’re trapped!” one man yelled.
D’Agosta whirled his light onto the crowd. “All of you, just calm down. That body in the exhibition has been dead at least two days. You understand? Two days. The murderer’s long gone.”
“How do you know?” shouted the same man.
“Shut up and listen,” said D’Agosta. “We’re going to get you out of here. If we can’t open the door, they’ll do it from the outside. It may take a few minutes. In the meantime, I want you all to get away from the door, stick together, find yourself some chairs that aren’t broken, and sit down. Okay? There’s nothing you can do here.”
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1) Page 27
