Reliquary

by Douglas Preston

  “And?”

  “I suggested he go put a poultice on it. Politely, of course. I’d been thinking it was best not to alarm Frock or Green. But after that meeting, I talked to them both, gave them some advice. They promised to be very careful, at least until their work is finished.”

  “Have they discovered what caused the skeletal deformation in Kawakita?”

  “Not yet.” D’Agosta nodded absently.

  Pendergast turned toward him. “What is it?” he asked.

  D’Agosta hesitated. “I suppose I’m a little worried about how Dr. Green is taking all this. I mean, it was my idea to tap her and Frock in the first place, but now I’m not so sure. Frock seems to be his usual ornery self, but Margo ...” He paused. “You know how she reacted to the Museum murders. Conditioning herself, running every day, packing a pistol.”

  Pendergast nodded. “It’s not an uncommon type of post-traumatic stress reaction. People who emerge from terrifying situations sometimes look for ways to gain control, to limit their feelings of vulnerability. Actually, it’s a relatively healthy response to severe stress.” He smiled grimly. “And I can think of few more stressful situations than the one she and I found ourselves in, there in that darkened Museum corridor.”

  “Yeah, but she’s overdoing it. And now, with all this shit happening… well, I’m not sure I made the right decision, calling her in like I did.”

  “It was absolutely the right decision. We need her expertise. Especially now that we know Kawakita is dead. You’ll be investigating his last known whereabouts, I trust?”

  D’Agosta nodded.

  “You might consider asking Dr. Green to lend a hand with that.” Pendergast resumed his scrutiny of the tunnel, peering into the darkness with his sooty face. “Ah, well. Ready, Vincent?”

  “I guess so. What if we meet hostiles?”

  Pendergast smiled slightly. “Trading in local commerce tends to keep the natives peaceful.”

  “Drugs?” D’Agosta asked in disbelief.

  Pendergast nodded, opening his coat. In the gleam of the penlight, D’Agosta could make out several tiny pockets stitched into the filthy lining. “It appears that virtually everyone down here is or has been an addict of one kind or another.” His finger moved from one pocket to the next. “I have an entire pharmacopoeia here: crack cocaine, methylphenidate, Carbrital, Seconal, military-grade Blue 88s. They may well save our lives, Vincent. They saved mine on my first descent.”

  Pendergast dug into one of the small pockets and pulled out a slender black capsule. “Biphetamine,” he said. “Known in the underground fraternity as a black beauty.”

  He stared at the capsule for a moment. Then, with a quick movement, he popped it into his mouth.

  “What the—?” D’Agosta began, but the FBI agent held his hand out for silence.

  “It’s not enough for me to act the part,” Pendergast whispered. “I have to be the part. This Mephisto is undoubtedly a suspicious, paranoid individual. Scenting fraud is his stock in trade. Remember that.”

  D’Agosta said nothing. They really had stepped outside society, outside the law, outside everything.

  They passed into the side tunnel and moved along an abandoned rail line. Every few minutes, Pendergast would stop to consult some notes. Following the FBI agent deeper into darkness, D’Agosta was amazed at how quickly he lost his own orientation, his sense of time.

  Suddenly Pendergast pointed toward a wavering reddish light, seemingly suspended in the darkness perhaps a hundred yards ahead of them. “There are people around that fire,” he whispered. “It’s probably a small ‘upstairs’ community, squatters living at the edge of Mephisto’s domain.” He stared speculatively at the glow for a few moments. Then he turned.

  “Shall we retire to the drawing room?” he asked, and, without waiting for an answer, began moving toward the distant glow.

  As they drew closer, D’Agosta made out a dozen or so figures, lounging on the ground or hunched atop milk crates, staring into the fire. A bubbling black coffeepot sat among the coals. Pendergast ambled into the firelight and squatted down beside the blaze. Nobody paid any attention. He reached into one of the many layers of his outfit and pulled out a pint bottle of English Lord De Luxe Tokay wine. D’Agosta watched as all eyes swiveled in the direction of the bottle.

  Pendergast unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, sighing contentedly. “Anybody want a slug?” he asked, turning the bottle’s label toward the firelight so all could see. D’Agosta was momentarily taken aback: the FBI agent’s voice had changed utterly. It now sounded thick, drugged, with a distinct Flatbush accent. Pendergast’s pale skin, eyes, and hair looked alien and menacing in the flickering glare.

  A hand reached out. “Yeah,” came a voice. A man on a milk crate took the bottle and placed it to his lips. There was a long sucking noise. When he handed it back to Pendergast, a quarter of the contents were gone. Pendergast passed the bottle to another, and it went around the circle, returning empty. There was a single grunt of thanks.

  D’Agosta tried to maneuver into the plume of smoke, hoping to dilute the stench of unwashed human bodies, bad wine, and rancid urine.

  “I’m looking for Mephisto,” Pendergast said after a moment.

  There was a momentary stir around the campfire. The men seemed suddenly wary. “Who wants to know?” the one who’d first taken the bottle asked belligerently.

  “I want to know,” said Pendergast, immediately belligerent himself.

  There was a short silence while the man eyed Pendergast, sizing him up. “Up yours, Jack,” he said at last, sinking back into his chair.

  Pendergast moved so quickly that D’Agosta jumped away, startled. When he looked back, the man was facedown in the rubble, and Pendergast was standing over him, one foot planted on his neck.

  “Shit!” the man howled.

  Pendergast pressed down. “Nobody disses Whitey,” he hissed.

  “I didn’t mean nothing, man. Jesus!”

  Pendergast eased up slightly.

  “Mephisto hangs out at Route 666.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Stop it, man, that shit hurts! Look, head down track 100, watch for the old generator. Take the ladder down to the catwalk.”

  Pendergast released his foot, and the man sat up, rubbing his neck. “Mephisto don’t like outsiders.”

  “Him and I have business to discuss.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “About the Wrinklers.”

  Even in the dark, D’Agosta sensed the group stiffen. “What about them?” a new voice asked sharply.

  “I talk to Mephisto only.” Pendergast nodded to D’Agosta, and they moved away from the campfire, continuing on into the darkness of the tunnel. When the fire had receded to a dwindling point, Pendergast once again snapped on the penlight.

  “You can’t let anyone disrespect you down here,” Pendergast said quietly. “Even a marginal group like that. If they sense weakness, you’re as good as dead.”

  “Those were some pretty slick moves,” D’Agosta said.

  “It’s not difficult to knock down a drunk. On my last trip down, I learned that alcohol is the drug of choice on these upper levels. Except for that one thin fellow, farthest from the fire. I’d wager, Lieutenant, that he was a skin-popper. Did you notice how he was absently scratching himself during the entire meeting? A side effect of fentanyl, quite unmistakable.”

  The tunnel branched, and after consulting a railyard map from one of his pockets Pendergast took the narrower, left-hand passage. “This leads to track 100,” he said.

  D’Agosta shuffled on behind. After what seemed an interminable distance, Pendergast stopped again, pointing out a great rusting machine with several huge belt gears, each at least twelve feet in diameter. The rotted belt lay underneath in a heap on the ground. On the far side was a metal staircase, ending at a catwalk suspended above an ancient tunnel. Ducking under a stalactite-covered pipe stenciled H.P.ST., D’Agosta followed
Pendergast down the staircase and along the rickety grating. At the end of the catwalk, a hinged plate in the floor led to a metal ladder, which descended into a large, unfinished tunnel. Rock and rusted metal I-beams lay in untidy piles against the walls. Although D’Agosta could see the remains of several camps, the place appeared deserted.

  “We have to climb down this rock, it seems,” said Pendergast, shining the penlight beam into a large area at the end of the tunnel. The edges of the rock were slick with the impressions of countless hands and feet. A caustic smell drifted up.

  D’Agosta went first, clinging desperately to the sharp, wet basalt. It was the work of five terrifying minutes to reach the bottom. He felt like he was entombed in the very bedrock of the island.

  “I’d like to see someone climb that thing messed up on drugs,” he said as Pendergast dropped to the ground beside him. The muscles in his arms were shaking from the exertion.

  “Below here, nobody leaves,” said Pendergast. “Except the runners.”

  “Runners?”

  “As I understand it, they are the only community members who have contact with the surface. They collect and cash AFDC checks, rummage for food, ‘bust’ recyclables for spare change, pick up medicine and milk, buy drugs.”

  Pendergast shone his light around, revealing a rough, rocky pit. On the far wall, a five-foot piece of corrugated tin covered an abandoned tunnel. A crude message painted on the wall beside it read FAMILIES ONLY. ALL OTHERS KEEP OUT.

  Pendergast grabbed the sheet of metal and it swung open with a loud screech. “Doorbell,” he explained.

  As they stepped into the tunnel, a ragged-looking figure suddenly appeared in front of them, a large firebrand in one hand. He was tall and terrifyingly gaunt. “Who are you?” he demanded, standing in Pendergast’s way.

  “Are you Tail Gunner?” Pendergast asked.

  “Outside,” the man said, pushing them toward the tin door. In a moment they were back out in the rocky pit. “The name’s Flint. What do you want?”

  “I’m here to see Mephisto,” Pendergast replied.

  “What for?”

  “I’m the leader of Grant’s Tomb. A small community beneath Columbia University. I’ve come to talk about the killings.”

  There was a long silence. “And him?” Flint said, gesturing at D’Agosta.

  “My runner,” said Pendergast.

  Flint turned back to Pendergast. “Weapons or drugs?” he asked.

  “No weapons,” said Pendergast. In the lambent glow of the firebrand, he looked suddenly embarrassed. “But I do carry my own little supply—”

  “No drugs here,” said Flint. “We’re a clean community.”

  Bullshit, D’Agosta thought, looking into the man’s burning eyes.

  “Sorry,” said Pendergast, “I don’t give up my stash. If that’s a problem—”

  “What’ve you got?” Flint asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “Coke?” he asked, and D’Agosta thought he detected a faint hopeful tone in his voice.

  “Good guess,” said Pendergast after a moment.

  “I’m gonna have to confiscate that.”

  “Consider it a gift.” Pendergast brought out a small folded piece of tinfoil and handed it to Flint, who quickly tucked it into his coat.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  D’Agosta pulled the metal sheet closed behind them and followed Flint as he led them down a metal staircase. The staircase ended in a narrow opening that led onto a cement landing, suspended far above a vast cylindrical room. Flint turned and began moving down a cement ramp that spiraled along the wall. As he walked down the ramp, D’Agosta noticed that several cubbyholes had been cut into the rock. Each cubbyhole was occupied by individuals or families. Candles and kerosene lamps flickered over dirty faces and filthy beddings. Looking across the vast space, D’Agosta could see a broken pipe jutting from the wall. Water spilled from the pipe and fell into a muddy pool that had been excavated out of the cavern floor. Several figures huddled around it, apparently washing clothes. The dirty water ran away in a stream and disappeared into the broken mouth of a tunnel.

  Reaching the bottom, they crossed the stream on an ancient board. Groups of underground dwellers dotted the cavern floor, sleeping or playing cards. A man lay in a far corner, his eyes open and milky, and D’Agosta realized he was awaiting burial. He turned away.

  Flint led them through a long, low passage from which many tunnels seemed to branch. In the dim light at the end of some of the corridors, D’Agosta could see people at work: storing canned goods, mending clothes, distilling grain alcohol, At last, Flint brought them out into a space filled with the glow of electric light. Looking up, D’Agosta saw a single light bulb, dangling from a frayed cord that ran to an old junction box in one corner.

  D’Agosta’s eyes traveled down from the bulb along the crack-riddled bricks that lined the chamber. Then he froze, a gasp of disbelief on his lips. In the center of the room was a battered and ancient train caboose, tilted at a crazy angle, its rear wheels suspended at least two feet above the floor. How it had ended up in this strange lunatic place he couldn’t begin to imagine. Along its side, he barely could make out the letters NEW YO CENTRA in faded black on the rusted red metal.

  Motioning them to stay put, Flint entered the caboose. He emerged a few minutes later, beckoning them forward.

  Stepping inside, D’Agosta found himself in a small antechamber, the far end of which was covered with a thick dark curtain. Flint had vanished. The caboose was dark and stupefyingly hot.

  “Yes?” hissed a strange voice from beyond the curtain.

  Pendergast cleared his throat. “I’m known as Whitey, leader of Grant’s Tomb. We heard about your call for the underground people to band together, to stop the killings.”

  There was a silence. D’Agosta wondered what lay beyond the curtain. Maybe nothing, he told himself. Maybe it’s like in The Wizard of Oz. Maybe Smithback had just made half the article up. You could never tell with journalists…

  “Come in,” the voice said.

  The curtain was pulled aside. Reluctantly, D’Agosta followed Pendergast into the chamber beyond.

  The interior was dark, lit only by the reflected glow of the naked bulb outside and by a small fire that smoldered beneath a vent in one corner. In front of them, a man sat in a massive, thronelike chair that had been placed in the exact center of the room. He was tall, with large limbs and long, thick gray hair. The man was dressed in an ancient bell-bottom suit of tan corduroy and wore a threadbare Borsalino hat. A heavy silver Navajo squash blossom necklace set with turquoise hung around his neck.

  Mephisto stared at them with unusually penetrating eyes. “Mayor Whitey. Unoriginal. Not likely to induce reverence. But in your albinoid case, appropriate.” The hiss had taken on a slow, formal tone.

  D’Agosta felt the gaze turn on him. Whatever else this guy is, D’Agosta thought, he ain’t crazy. At least, not completely crazy. He felt uneasy; Mephisto’s eyes glittered with suspicion.

  “And this one?” he asked.

  “Cigar. My runner.”

  Mephisto stared at D’Agosta for a long time. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “I’ve never heard of a Grant’s Tomb community,” he said, voice laced with doubt.

  “There’s a large network of service tunnels beneath Columbia and its outbuildings,” Pendergast said. “We’re small, and we mind our own business. The students are pretty generous.”

  Mephisto nodded, listening. The look of suspicion slowly vanished, replaced by something that was either a leer or a smile, D’Agosta couldn’t be sure which. “Of course. Always nice to meet an ally in these dark days. Let’s seal this meeting with some refreshments. We can talk afterwards.”

  He clapped his hands. “Chairs for our guests! And get that fire going! Tail Gunner, bring us some meat.” A thin, short man D’Agosta had not seen before appeared out of the shadows and left the caboose. Another, who had been sitting cross-le
gged on the floor, struggled to his feet and, moving with glacial slowness, piled wood on the fire and poked it into life. It’s already too damn hot in here, D’Agosta thought as he felt the sweat trickle down the inside of his greasy shirt.

  An enormous, heavily muscled man came in with two packing crates, which he set in front of Mephisto’s chair. “Gentlemen, please,” Mephisto said with mock gravity, gesturing at the crates.

  D’Agosta settled himself gingerly on the packing crate as the man called Tail Gunner returned, carrying something wet and dripping in a piece of old newspaper. He dropped it beside the fire, and D’Agosta felt his stomach seize up involuntarily: inside was an enormous rat, its head half crushed, paws still twitching rhythmically as if to some internal beat.

  “Excellent!” cried Mephisto. “Fresh caught, as you can see.” He turned his piercing eyes on Pendergast. “You do eat track rabbit, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Pendergast replied.

  D’Agosta noticed that the heavily muscled man was now standing directly behind them. It began to dawn on him that they were about to undergo a test they had better not fail.

  Reaching out, Mephisto took the carcass in one hand and a long metal roasting spit in the other. Holding the rat beneath its front haunches, Mephisto deftly threaded the skewer from anus to head, then set it over the fire to roast. D’Agosta watched in horrified fascination as the hair immediately sizzled and caught fire, and the rat gave one final convulsive spasm. A moment later the entire animal flared up, sending a plume of acrid smoke toward the roof of the caboose. It died down again, the tail withering into a blackened corkscrew.

  Mephisto watched the rat for a moment. Then he plucked it from the fire, pulled a knife out of his coat, and scraped the remaining hair off the skin. Piercing the belly to release the cooking gases, he returned it to the flame, this time at a higher elevation.

  “It takes skill,” he said, “to cook le grand souris en brochette.”