Douglas Preston - Reliquary

Suddenly the demeanor of the homeless man changed dramatically. He shambled forward and sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs, crossing his legs, acting for all the world like he owned the place. The smell was stronger now. It reminded D’Agosta, faintly and unsettlingly, of the smell in the railroad tunnel.

“I hope you’re comfortable,” said D’Agosta, strategically placing the cigar in front of his nose. “You got four minutes left.”

“Actually, Vincent,” said the homeless man, “I’m about as comfortable as can be expected, given the condition in which you see me.”

D’Agosta slowly dropped the cigar to the desk, stunned.

“I’m sorry to see you still smoking.” The homeless man eyed the cigar. “However, I notice that your taste in cigars has improved. Dominican Republic leaf, if I’m not mistaken, with a Connecticut Shade wrapper. If you must smoke, that Churchill is a vast improvement over the packing twine you used to indulge in.”

D’Agosta remained speechless. He knew the voice, he knew the melodious southern accent. He just couldn’t connect it with the stinking, filthy bum sitting across from him.

“Pendergast?” he breathed.

The homeless man nodded.

“What—?”

“I hope you’ll forgive the histrionic entrance,” said Pendergast. “I wanted to test the effectiveness of my costume.”

“Oh,” said D’Agosta.

Hayward stepped forward and glanced at D’Agosta. For the first time she appeared to be at a loss. “Lieutenant—?” she began.

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “Sergeant, this”—he waved a hand at the bedraggled figure who was now sitting, hands folded in his lap, one leg crossed carefully over the other—“is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

Hayward looked at D’Agosta, then at the homeless man. “Bullshit,” she said simply.

Pendergast laughed delightedly. He placed his elbows on the arms of the chair, tented his hands, rested his chin on his fingertips, and looked at Hayward. “Delighted to meet you, Sergeant. I would offer to shake hands, but…”

“Don’t bother,” said Hayward, hastily, a lingering look of suspicion on her face.

Suddenly, D’Agosta stepped over and crushed the visitor’s slender, grubby hands in his. “Christ, Pendergast, it’s good to see you. I wondered what the hell had happened to your skinny ass. I heard you’d refused the directorship of the New York office, but I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since the Museum murders, as they’ve become known.” Pendergast nodded. “I see they are front-page news again.”

Sitting down again, D’Agosta scowled and nodded.

Pendergast glanced up at the map. “Quite a problem you have on your hands, Vincent. A string of vicious murders above and below ground, angst plaguing the city’s elite, and now rumors that Mbwun has returned.”

“Pendergast, you got no idea.”

“Pardon my contradicting you, but I have a very good idea. In fact, I came by to see if you would care for some assistance.”

D’Agosta’s face brightened, then grew guarded. “Officially?” he asked.

Pendergast smiled. “Semiofficial is the best I can do, I’m afraid. These days, I more or less choose my own TDYs. I’ve spent the past year working on technical projects we can go into some other time. And let’s just say I’ve received sanction to assist the NYPD on this case. Of course, I must maintain what we so delicately call ‘deniability.’ At this point, there is no evidence that a federal crime has been committed.” He waved his hand. “My problem, quite simply, is that I cannot stay away from an interesting case. An annoying habit, but very hard to break.”

D’Agosta looked at him curiously. “So why haven’t I seen you in almost two years? Seems like New York would offer lots of interesting cases.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “Not for me,” he replied.

D’Agosta turned toward Hayward. “This is the first good thing that’s happened to the case since day one,” he said.

Pendergast glanced from D’Agosta to Hayward and back again, his pale blue eyes in stark contrast to his dirty skin. “You flatter me, Vincent. But let’s get to work. Since my appearance seems to have convinced both of you, I’m hoping to test it out below ground as soon as possible. If you two will bring me up to date, that is.”

“So you agree that the Wisher murder and the homeless murders are connected?” Hayward asked, still a little suspicious.

“I agree completely, Sergeant—Hayward, was it?” Pendergast said. Then he straightened noticeably. “That wouldn’t be Laura Hayward, would it?”

“What of it?” Hayward said, suddenly guarded.

Pendergast relaxed in his chair again. “Excellent,” he said in a low voice. “Please let me congratulate you on your article in last month’s Journal of Abnormal Sociology. A most revealing look at the hierarchy among the underground homeless.”

For the first time since D’Agosta had met her, Hayward looked distinctly uncomfortable. Her face flushed, and she looked away, unused to the compliment.

“Sergeant?” he asked.

“I’m getting my master’s from NYU,” she said, still looking away. Then she turned back quickly, glaring at D’Agosta, as if challenging him to taunt her. “My thesis is on caste structure in underground society.”

“That’s great,” D’Agosta said, surprised at her defensiveness, but feeling a little defensive himself. How come she never told me? She think I’m stupid?

“But why publish in such an obscure journal?” Pendergast continued. “I’d have thought the Law Enforcement Bulletin would be the obvious choice.”

Hayward gave a low laugh, her poise fully recovered. “Are you kidding?” she said.

All at once D’Agosta understood. Hard enough to be a pint-sized, pretty female rouster in the TA division, which had more than its share of hulking thugs. But to be working on an advanced academic degree on the very people she had to roust… He shook his head, imagining the kind of relentless derision she would have been subjected to in the ranks.

“Ah yes, I see,” Pendergast said, nodding. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, in any case. But let’s get to business. I’ll need to see the analyses of the crime scenes. The more we can learn about the UnSub, the sooner we’ll find him. Or them. He’s not a rapist, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Perhaps he’s a fetishist. He—or they—certainly does seem to enjoy his souvenirs. We’ll have to check the files on any inactive serial killers or assassin-types. Also, I wonder if you could have Data Processing ran cross-correlations on the known data for all victims. You might want to run a second query for all the missing persons, too. We should check for any points of commonality, no matter how subtle.”

“I’ll get on it,” Hayward said.

“Excellent.” Pendergast stood and approached the desk. “Now, if I could just see the case files—”

“Please sit down,” D’Agosta said quickly, his nose wrinkling. “Your disguise is all too convincing, if you get my meaning.”

“Of course,” Pendergast said airily, sitting down again. “Convincing to a fault. Sergeant Hayward, if you’d be so kind as to pass those over?”

= 18 =

MARGO TOOK A seat in the vast Linnaeus Hall, deep within the original massing of the Museum of Natural History, and looked curiously around. It was an elegant space, originally constructed in 1882. Soaring vaults rose above dark oak paneling. Around the long dome of the hall, an intricate frieze had been carved, displaying Evolution in all its grandeur: from beautifully carved animicules at one end to the great figure of Man at the other.