Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“Looks like he’s definitely headed for the southern end of Crow Island,” Silas said.

“Yeah, but what the hell is out there for him?” asked Rivera.

“Well, if we keep to this bearing, we’ll end up in the ruins of Oldham.”

“Oldham?”

“An ancient fishing village that washed away in a hurricane back in the ’30s. Nothing there now but cellar holes and...”

“And what?”

Silas gave a snort of derision. “That depends on whether or not you believe the legends.”

Constance struggled only momentarily, as she felt a warm breath in her ear and the whispered word: “Aloysius.”

She relaxed and he released her.

“We must get out,” he whispered into her ear. “We’re no match for the killer on his own ground.”

“I quite agree,” she said, feeling awkward despite the intense danger of the situation. “However, I’m lost.”

“As am I, unfortunately.”

This struck Constance as surprising. “You’re lost?”

“I was... distracted. Do you know where the killer is?”

“He went past a few moments ago. Perhaps I can hear him. One moment.” She fell silent. At the very edge of audibility she could hear the faint sounds of the creature, breathing hard and moving about. He was most certainly wounded. The sounds moved back and forth as the thing searched for them. “Do you hear that?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not. Your ears are keener than mine.”

More silence as she listened. The sounds were distorted by the tunnels, and eventually they faded away. She waited, but they did not reappear.

“He seems to have moved away from us.”

“As I feared.”

She didn’t ask what he feared; it was exactly the kind of question he would refuse to answer. He finally spoke, his voice remaining a whisper in her ear. “You have more experience in dark tunnels than I. Do you have any ideas on a way out?”

From this, Constance understood that, due to her many years of wandering the subterranean tunnels and basements of 891 Riverside Drive, the burden of escape was on her shoulders. “One, perhaps. Have you heard of John Pledge of Exeter, England?”

“No. Make the lesson short.”

“Pledge was a hedge-maze enthusiast. He devised a way for anyone to get out of the hardest kind of disjoint maze. One starts in an arbitrary direction, keeping a hand on the right wall, and counting the turns. After four turns, if all are right angles, the hand is removed from the wall and one continues in the original direction until another wall—”

Constance felt Pendergast place his finger to her lips. “Just give me your hand and lead the way.”

She gave him her hand and he murmured in surprise. “Your hands are shackled.”

“Yes. And yours are wet. Is that blood?”

“It’s nothing. Hold up your hands, please.”

She felt him work on the cuffs. One dropped off, and then the other.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“I repeat: it’s nothing .” He spoke sharply. “Do not mention it again.”

After a moment, he spoke once more. “Forgive my sharp tone. Constance... you were right and I was wrong. Things were happening here in Exmouth on two levels — one on a far deeper level of evil than the other. It’s nothing I’ve come across in the serial-killer cases I have worked. I simply did not see it.”

“Never mind,” she replied, the feeling of awkwardness returning.

He hesitated, as if about to say something more, but instead simply indicated that she should lead the way.

She started down the passageway, feeling along the wall with one hand, holding Pendergast’s hand with the other, and probing ahead with her feet. The tunnels were silent; the sounds of the demon had disappeared. She continued to follow the Pledge system, counting the turns, the task made much easier by the fact that almost all the corners were right angles.

Pendergast halted. “The air is fresher here,” he said. “Less foul.”

“So I noticed.”

“Listen again, if you please,” he whispered.

She listened, straining to hear any sound beyond the muffled vibration of surf and the dripping of water. “Nothing.”

“I feared as much. I’m sure of it now: he’s lying in wait. The logical place would be at the entrance to these tunnels. So here’s what’s going to happen: I will go first. He will attack. When he does, I will divert him while you run past and out. I will mount a rearguard action.”

“You know quite well I won’t leave you.”

“If you don’t, we’ll both perish. Please do as I tell you.”

“I have my knife.”

“Give it to me.”

She fumbled it out of the folds of her dress and handed it to him.

“I want your promise: you will run past and keep running.”

“Very well,” she lied.

Then, as she was about to lead onward, he hesitated again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“This is a damned awkward time to tell you this, but it must be said.”

She felt her heart accelerate.

“You must be prepared for a confrontation, Constance.”

“I’m ready.”

There was a brief pause. “No. Not this confrontation. Another.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If something should happen to me... assume nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

Pendergast paused in the darkness. “Someone’s been here. Someone I fear that I — that we — know only too well.”

In the dark, Constance felt herself turn cold. “Who?” But from his voice she already had an idea who he meant. The cold abruptly became incendiary.

“I found the creature’s shackles and the lock to his prison door had been tampered with. Most cleverly. Why? There’s a perverse logic at work here... and I’m all too certain I know what that logic is.”

“Does this have to do with the figure in the dunes?”

Pendergast shook away the question. “Yes, but there’s no time to explain. Please listen. I have complete trust in Proctor. If something should happen to me, put yourself in his hands. He’ll be to you all that I am now, your guardian and protector. And I repeat: no matter what happens, no matter how things seem, assume nothing .”

“But, Aloysius—” she began, but fell silent when she felt his finger on her lips.

Pendergast then pressed her hand, directing her to continue down the tunnel.

They continued their circuitous route, turn after turn after turn. It wasn’t long until Constance noticed the air was cooler and appeared to have some movement: they must be very close to the entrance now. While fresher, it still had a foul reek to it — the same foul reek that came from the beast.

Pendergast, she realized, must have come to the same conclusion, because he stopped and — using touch alone — directed her to take a position behind him.

Moving slower, in absolute silence, they proceeded. They were now in a long, straight tunnel that, she assumed, led to the outside world. After a minute, she gestured for Pendergast to stop once again so that she could listen.

She could hear labored breathing. The beast was evidently trying to control it, but he couldn’t quite stop the sound of wheezing. He was just ahead. She indicated his presence to Pendergast with a faint touch of hand pressure. Pressure back told her Pendergast had also heard it.

He released her hand and, tracing letters on her palm, spelled out with painstaking slowness:

ON THREE I RUSH

YOU FOLLOW

I ENGAGE

KEEP RUNNING

She squeezed her understanding. He held her hand, tapped out 1, 2, and 3 — and then in a flash he seemed to disappear, as silent and quick as a bat in a cave. She followed at a run, blind, hands stretched out in front of her.