“It was years ago, I tell you,” Wright snapped. “It was boarded over and forgotten.”
There was a long silence while Wright poured another drink.
“Winston,” Cuthbert said, “put that drink down.”
The Director took a long swig, then hung his head. His shoulders slumped.
“Ian,” he murmured finally. “How could this have happened? We’re ruined, you know.”
Cuthbert was silent.
“Let’s not bury the patient before the diagnosis,” said Rickman, in a desperately bright voice. “Good public relations can repair even the worst damage.”
“Lavinia, we aren’t talking about a few poisoned headache tablets here,” Cuthbert said. “There’s half a dozen dead people, maybe more, lying two floors below us. The bloody Mayor is trapped down there. In a couple of hours, we’ll be on every late news show in the country.”
“We’re ruined,” Wright repeated. A small, strangled sob escaped from his throat, and he laid his head down on the table.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Cuthbert, reaching over for Wright’s bottle and glass and putting them back in the cabinet.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” Wright moaned without raising his head.
“Yes, Winston, it’s over,” said Cuthbert. “Frankly, I’ll be happy just to get out of here with my life.”
“Please, Ian, let’s leave here? Please?” Rickman pleaded. She stood up and walked over to the door Wright had closed behind them and swung it open slowly.
“This wasn’t locked!” she said sharply.
“Good Lord,” Cuthbert said, jumping up. Wright, without lifting his head, fished in his pocket and held out a key.
“Fits both doors,” he said in a muffled voice.
Rickman’s shaking hand rattled the key loudly in the lock.
“What did we do wrong?” Wright asked plaintively.
“That’s clear enough,” said Cuthbert. “Five years ago, we had a chance to solve this thing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rickman, coming back toward them.
“You know very well what. I’m talking about Montague’s disappearance. We should have taken care of the problem then, instead of pretending it never happened. All that blood in the basement near the Whittlesey crates, Montague gone missing. In hindsight, we now know exactly what happened to him. But we should have gotten to the bottom of it then. You remember, Winston? We were sitting in your office when Ippolito came in with the news. You ordered the floor cleaned and the incident forgotten. We washed our hands of it, and hoped whoever or whatever killed Montague would disappear.”
“There was no proof anyone was killed!” Wright wailed, lifting his head. “And certainly no proof it was Montague! It could have been a stray dog, or something. How could we have known?”
“We didn’t know. But we might have found out had you allowed Ippolito to report that monstrous great bloodstain to the police. And you, Lavinia—as I recall, you agreed that we should simply wash that blood away.”
“Ian, there was no sense in creating a needless scandal. You know very well that blood could have been from anything,” Rickman said. “And Ian, it was you who insisted those crates be moved. You who worried the exhibition would raise questions about the Whittlesey expedition, you who took the journal and then asked me to keep it for you until the exhibition was over. The journal didn’t fit in with your theories, did it?”
Cuthbert snorted. “How little you know. John Whittlesey was my friend. At least, he was once. We had a falling-out over an article he published, and we never patched things up. Anyway, it’s rather too late for that now. But I didn’t want to see that journal come to light, his theories held up for ridicule.”
He turned and stared at the Public Relations Director. “What I did, Lavinia, was simply try to protect a colleague who’d gone a bit barmy. I didn’t cover up a killing. And what about the sightings? Winston, you received several reports a year about people seeing or hearing strange things after hours. You never once did anything about it, did you?”
“How could I have known?” came the spluttering response. “Who’d have believed it? They were crank reports, ridiculous…”
“Can we change the subject, please?” cried Rickman. “I can’t wait here, in the dark. Maybe the windows? Perhaps they’ll spread a net for us?”
“No,” said Wright, sighing deeply and rubbing his eyes. “Those bars are case-hardened steel, several inches thick.” He peered around the darkened room. “Where’s my drink?”
“You’ve had enough,” said Cuthbert.
“You and your damned Anglican moralizing.” He lurched to his feet and headed for the cabinet with a slightly unsteady gait.
* * *
In the stairwell, D’Agosta looked toward the dim figure of Bailey.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re in charge, Loo.”
Below them, the large group of guests was waiting, huddled together on the steps, sniffling and sobbing. D’Agosta turned to face them.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ve got to move fast. The next landing down has a door leading into the basement. We’re going to go through it and meet up with some others who know a way out of here. Everybody understand?”
“We understand,” came a voice that D’Agosta recognized as the Mayor’s.
“Good,” D’Agosta nodded. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll get to the front and lead the way with my light. Bailey, you cover our rear. Let me know if you see anything.”
Slowly, the group descended. On the landing, D’Agosta waited until Bailey gave him the all-clear sign. Then he grabbed the door handle.
It didn’t budge.
D’Agosta gave it another yank, harder this time. No luck.
“What the—?” He brought his flashlight to bear on the handle. “Shit,” he muttered. Then, in a louder tone, he said, “Everybody stay where you are for a moment, be as quiet as possible. I’m going up to talk to my officer at the rear.” He retraced his steps.
“Listen, Bailey,” he told him softly, “we can’t get into the basement. Some of our shells ripped into the door and they’ve bent the jamb all to hell. There’s no way we can get the thing open without a crowbar.”
Even in the dark he could see Bailey’s eyes widen. “So what are we gonna do?” the sergeant asked. “Go back upstairs?”
“Let me think a minute,” D’Agosta said. “How much ammo do you have? I’ve got six rounds in my service piece.”
“I don’t know. Fifteen, sixteen rounds, maybe.”
“Damn,” D’Agosta said, “I don’t think—”
He stopped, abruptly shutting off his flashlight and listening to the close darkness. A slight movement of air down the stairwell brought a ripe, goatish smell.
Bailey dropped to one knee, aiming the shotgun up the staircase. D’Agosta quickly turned to the group waiting below him. “Everybody,” he hissed, “down to the next landing. Quick!”
There was a series of low murmurs. “We can’t go down there!” somebody cried. “We’ll be trapped underground!”
D’Agosta’s response was drowned by the blast of Bailey’s shotgun. “The Museum Beast!” somebody screamed, and the group turned, stumbling and falling down the stairs. “Bailey!” D’Agosta shouted, his ears ringing from the blast. “Bailey, follow me!”
Walking backward down the stairs, one hand holding his handgun, the other feeling its way against the wall, D’Agosta noticed the surface of the stairwell turn to damp stone as he moved below the level of the basement. Farther up the stairwell, he could see the dim form of Bailey following, gasping and cursing under his breath. After what seemed an eternity, D’Agosta’s foot hit the subbasement landing. All around him, people held their breaths; then Bailey bumped into him gently.
“Bailey, what the fuck was it?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” came the response. “There was that horrible smell, then I thought I saw something. Two red eyes in the dark. I fired.”
D’Agosta shone his flashlight up the stairwell. The light showed only shadows and rough-hewn yellow rock, crudely carved. The smell lingered.
He shone the flashlight toward the group, and did a quick head count. Thirty-eight, including himself and Bailey. “Okay,” he whispered to the group. “We’re in the subbasement. I’m gonna go in first, then you follow at my signal.”
He turned and shined his light over the door. Christ, he thought, this thing belongs in the Tower of London. The blackened metal door was reinforced with horizontal strips of iron. When he pushed it open, cool, damp, moldy air rushed into the stairwell. D’Agosta started forward. At the sound of gurgling water, he stepped back, then played the light downward.
“Listen, everybody,” he called. “There’s running water down here, about three inches deep. Come forward one at a time, quickly but carefully. There are two steps down on the far side of the door. Bailey, take up the rear. And, for God’s sake, close the door behind you.”
* * *
Pendergast counted the remaining bullets, pocketed them, then looked in Frock’s direction. “Truly fascinating. And a clever bit of detection on your part. I’m sorry I doubted you, Professor.”
Frock gestured magnanimously. “How were you to know?” he asked. “Besides, it was Margo here who discovered the most important link. If she hadn’t tested those packing fibers, we never would have known.”
Pendergast nodded at Margo, huddled on top of a large wooden crate. “Brilliant work,” he said. “We could use you in the Baton Rouge crime lab.”
“Assuming I let her go,” Frock said. “And assuming we get out of here alive. Dubious assumptions, at best.”
“And assuming I’m willing to leave the Museum,” Margo said, surprising even herself.
Pendergast turned to Margo. “I know you understand this creature better than I do. Still, do you truly believe this plan you’ve described will work?”
Margo took a deep breath, nodded. “If the Extrapolator is correct, this beast hunts by smell rather than sight. And if its need for the plant is as strong as we think it is—” She paused, shrugged. “It’s the only way.”
Pendergast remained motionless a moment. “If it will save those people below us, we have to try.” He pulled out his radio.
“D’Agosta?” he said, adjusting the channel. “D’Agosta, this is Pendergast. Do you read?”
The radio squealed static. Then: “D’Agosta here.”
“D’Agosta, what’s your status?”
“We met up with that creature of yours,” came the response. “It got into the Hall, killed Ippolito and an injured guest. We moved into the stairwell, but the basement door was jammed. We had to go to the subbasement.”
“Understood,” Pendergast said. “How many of your weapons were you able to take?”
“We only had time to grab one twelve-gauge and a service revolver.”
“What’s your current position?”
“In the subbasement, maybe fifty yards from the stairwell door.”
“Listen closely, Vincent. I’ve been speaking with Professor Frock. The creature we’re dealing with is extremely intelligent. Maybe even as smart as you or I.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“If you see it again, don’t aim for the head. The slugs will just bounce off the skull. Aim for the body.”
There was silence for a moment, then D’Agosta’s voice returned. “Look, Pendergast, you need to tell Coffey some of this. He’s sending some men in, and I don’t think he has any idea of what’s waiting for him.”
“I’ll do my best. But first let’s talk about getting you out of here. That beast may be hunting you.”
“No shit.”
“I can direct you out of the Museum through the subbasement. It won’t be easy. These blueprints are very old, and they may not be completely reliable. There may be water.”
“We’re standing in half a foot of it now. Look, Pendergast, are you sure about this? I mean, there’s a mother of a storm outside.”
“It’s either face the water, or face the beast. There are forty of you; you’re the most obvious target. You’ve got to move, and move quickly—it’s the only way out.”
“Can you link up with us?”
“No. We’ve decided to stay here and lure it away from you. There’s no time to explain now. If our plan works, we’ll join you further on. Thanks to these blueprints, I’ve discovered more than one way to get into the subbasement from Cell Two.”
“Christ, Pendergast, be careful.”
“I intend to. Now, listen carefully. Are you in a long, straight passage?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Where the hall forks, go right. The hall should fork a second time in another hundred yards or so. When you get to the second fork, radio me. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good luck. Pendergast out.”
Pendergast quickly switched frequencies.
“Coffey, this is Pendergast. Do you copy?”
“Coffey here. Goddammit, Pendergast, I’ve been trying to reach you for—”
“No time for that now. Are you sending a rescue team in?”
“Yes. They’re preparing to leave now.”
“Then make sure they’re armed with heavy-caliber automatic weapons, flak helmets, and bulletproof vests. There’s a powerful, murderous creature in here, Coffey. I saw it. It has the run of Cell Two.”
“For Chrissakes, you and D’Agosta! Pendergast, if you’re trying to—”
Pendergast spoke rapidly into the radio. “I’ll only warn you once more. You’re dealing with something monstrous here. Underestimate it at your peril. I’m signing off.”
“No, Pendergast, wait! I order you to—”
Pendergast switched off the radio.
52
They slogged into the water, dim flashlight beams licking the low ceiling in front and behind. The flow of air in the tunnel continued to blow gently into their faces. D’Agosta was alarmed now. The beast could come up behind them unannounced, its stench wafted away from them.
He paused a moment to let Bailey catch up. “Lieutenant,” said the Mayor, catching his breath, “are you certain there’s a way out through here?”
“I can only go by what Agent Pendergast said, sir. He’s got the blueprints. But I sure as hell know we don’t want to go back.”
D’Agosta and the group started forward again. Dark, oily drops were falling from a ceiling of arched herringbone bricks. The walls were crusted with lime. Everyone was silent except for one woman, who was quietly weeping.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant?” said a voice. The young, lanky guy. Smithback.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind telling me something?”
“Shoot.”
“How does it feel to have the lives of forty people, including the Mayor of New York City, in your hands?”
“What?” D’Agosta stopped a moment, glared over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me we’ve got a fucking journalist with us!”
“Well, I—” began Smithback.
“Call downtown and make an appointment to see me at headquarters.”
D’Agosta played the light ahead and found the fork in the tunnel. He took the right-hand passage, as Pendergast had directed. It had a slight downhill grade, and the water began to move faster, tugging on his pants legs as it rushed past into the blackness beyond. The wound in his hand throbbed. As the group moved around the corner behind him, D’Agosta noted with relief that the breeze was no longer blowing in their faces.
A bloated dead rat came floating past, bumping against people’s legs like a lazy, oversized billiard ball. One person groaned and tried to kick it away, but no one complained.
“Bailey!” called D’Agosta behind him.
“Yeah?”
“See anything?”
“You’ll be the first to know if I do.”
“Gotcha. I’m going to call in upstairs, see if they’ve made any progress
in restoring power.”
He grabbed his radio. “Coffey?”
“Reading. Pendergast just shut me off. Where are you?”
“We’re in the subbasement. Pendergast has a blueprint. He’s leading us out by radio. When are the lights coming on?”
“D’Agosta, don’t be an idiot. He’ll get you all killed. It doesn’t look as if we’ll be getting power back any time soon. Go back to the Hall of the Heavens and wait there. We’ll be sending the SWAT team in through the roof in a couple of minutes.”
“Then you should know that Wright, Cuthbert, and the Public Relations Director are upstairs somewhere, the fourth floor, probably. That’s the only other exit point for that stairwell.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t take them with you?”
“They refused to come along. Wright cut out on his own and the others followed him.”
“Sounds like they had more sense than you did. Is the Mayor all right? Let me talk to the him.”
D’Agosta handed the radio over. “Are you all right, sir?” Coffey asked urgently.
“We’re in capable hands with the Lieutenant.”
“It’s my strong opinion, sir, that you should head back to the Hall of the Heavens and wait there for assistance. We’re sending in a SWAT team to rescue you.”
“I have every confidence in Lieutenant D’Agosta. As should you.”
“Yes, of course, sir. Rest assured that I’m going to get you safely out of there, sir.”
“Coffey?”
“Sir?”
“There are three dozen people in here besides me. Don’t forget that.”
“But I just want you to know, sir, we’re being extra—”
“Coffey! I don’t think you understood me. Every life down here is worth all the effort you’ve got.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Mayor handed the radio back to D’Agosta. “Am I wrong, or is that fellow Coffey a horse’s ass?” he muttered.
D’Agosta holstered the radio and proceeded down the passage. Then he stopped, playing his flashlight over an object that loomed out of the blackness in front of them. It was a steel door, closed. The oily water rushed through a thickly barred grating in its bottom panel. He waded closer. It was similar to the door at the base of the stairwell: thick, double-plated, studded with rusty rivets. An old copper lock, covered with verdigris, was looped through a thick metal D ring along the door’s side. D’Agosta grabbed the lock and pulled, but it held fast.
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1) Page 30
