Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“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.