Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“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-legged 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.