Douglas Preston - Reliquary

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 .”

D’Agosta waited, acutely aware that all eyes were on him and Pendergast. He did not want to imagine what would happen if he betrayed the slightest hint of disgust.

Minutes passed in silence as the rat sizzled. Mephisto rotated the rack, then looked at Pendergast. “How do you like yours?” he asked. “I prefer mine rare.”

“Suits me,” Pendergast said, as placidly as if he were being offered toast points at Tavern on the Green.

It’s just an animal , D’Agosta thought in desperation. Eating it won’t kill me. Which is more than I can say for these guys.

Mephisto sighed in ill-concealed anticipation. “Look done to you?”

“Let’s eat,” said Pendergast, rubbing his hands together.

D’Agosta said nothing.

“This calls for alcohol!” cried Mephisto. Almost immediately a half-empty bottle of Night Train appeared. Mephisto eyed it with disgust.

“These are guests!” he said, tossing the bottle aside. “Bring something suitable!” Shortly, a mossy bottle of Cold Duck and three plastic glasses arrived. Mephisto removed the metal skewer and slid the cooked rat onto the newspaper.

“You do the honors,” he said, handing it to Pendergast.

D’Agosta struggled with a sudden sense of panic. What was Pendergast supposed to do? He watched with mingled horror and relief as Pendergast, without hesitation, raised the rat and put his lips to the gash in its flank. There was a sharp sucking sound as the rodent was eviscerated. D’Agosta felt his gorge rise.

Licking his lips, Pendergast set the newspaper and its burden in front of their host.

“Excellent,” he said simply.

Mephisto nodded. “Interesting technique.”

“Hardly.” Pendergast shrugged. “They spread a lot of rat poison around the Columbia service tunnels. You can always tell by tasting the liver whether it’s safe to eat.”

A broad, and genuine, smile spread across Mephisto’s face. “I’ll remember that,” he said. Taking the knife, he cut several strips of meat from one haunch and handed them to D’Agosta.

The moment had come. Out of the corner of his eye, D’Agosta saw the hulking figure behind them grow tense. Squeezing his eyelids closed, he attacked the meat with feigned gusto, stuffing everything into his mouth at once, chewing furiously and swallowing the strips almost before he had a chance to taste them. He grinned through his agony, wrestling with the horrible feeling of nausea that swept across his gut.

“Bravo!” said Mephisto, watching. “A true gourmand!”

The level of tension in the air decreased palpably. As D’Agosta sat back on his packing crate, putting a protective hand over his stomach, the silence in the room gave way to low laughter and whispered conversation.

“You’ll forgive my suspicion,” Mephisto said. “There was a time when life underground was much more open and trusting. If you are who you say you are, you know that already. But these are difficult times.”

Mephisto poured them each a glass of wine, then raised his own in a toast. He sliced off several more cuts of meat and passed them to Pendergast, then demolished the rest of the rat himself.

“Let me introduce my Lieutenants,” Mephisto said. He waved at the hulking figure that stood behind them. “This is Little Harry. Got into horse pretty young. Took to petty thievery to support the habit. One thing led to another, and he ended up in Attica. They taught him quite a lot there. When he got out, he couldn’t find a job. Luckily, he wandered below and joined our community before he could fall back into bad habits.”

Mephisto pointed at the slow-moving figure by the fire. “That’s Boy Alice. Used to teach English at a Connecticut prep school. Things went sour. He lost his job, got divorced, ran out of money, began hitting the bottle. He gravitated to the shelters and soup kitchens. That’s where he heard about us. As for Tail Gunner, he got back from ‘Nam only to find that the country he’d defended didn’t want anything to do with him.”

Mephisto wiped his mouth on the newspaper. “That’s more than you need to know,” he said. “We’ve left the past behind, as you must have. So you’re here about the killings?”

Pendergast nodded. “Three of our people have been missing since last week, and the rest are getting concerned. We heard your call for alliance against the Wrinklers. The headless killers.”

“Word is getting around. Two days ago I heard from the Philosopher. Know of him?”

Pendergast hesitated for just a second. “No,” he replied.

Mephisto’s eyes narrowed. “Odd,” he said. “He’s my counterpart, leader of the communities beneath Grand Central.”

“Perhaps some day we shall meet,” Pendergast said. “For now, I need to take word back, reassurances for my people. What can you tell me about the killings and the killers?”

“They started almost a year ago,” Mephisto replied in a silky hiss. “First was Joe Atcitty. We found his body dumped outside the Blockhouse, head gone. Next, Dark Annie disappeared. Then Master Sergeant. It went on and on. Some we found. Most we didn’t. Later, we got word from the Manders that deep activity had been detected.”

Pendergast frowned. “Manders?”

Again, Mephisto shot a suspicious glance toward him. “Never heard of the Manders?” He cackled. “You ought to stretch your legs more, get out, see the neighborhood, Mayor Whitey. The Manders live below us. Never come up, never use lights. Like salamanders. Versteht? They said there were signs of movement below them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They said the Devil’s Attic had been colonized.”

D’Agosta looked questioningly at Pendergast. But the FBI agent merely nodded. “The lowest level of the city,” he said, as if to himself.

“The very lowest,” Mephisto replied.

“Have you been down there?” Pendergast asked with deliberate casualness.