Douglas Preston - Reliquary

Out of the corner of her eye, Margo watched as Mephisto went still.

“We can send in a team of divers up the spillways from the river,” Pendergast went on. “The route to the Astor outflow is relatively straightforward.”

Horlocker shook his head.

“I’ve studied the system carefully. When the Astor Tunnels fill, the overflow will channel into the West Side Lateral. That’s what we’ll have to block with explosives.”

“I don’t believe this,” Horlocker said, lowering his head and resting it on the knuckles of one hand.

“But then again, that may not be enough,” Pendergast went on, paying no attention to Horlocker now, thinking out loud. “To be certain, we’d also need to seal the Devil’s Attic from above, as well. The charts show that the Bottleneck and its drainage tubes are a closed system all the way up to the Reservoir, so all we have to do to keep the water trapped inside is to seal any escape routes immediately below it. That will also prevent the creatures from riding out the flood in an air pocket somewhere.”

Horlocker looked blank. Pendergast found a scrap and paper and swiftly drew a diagram. “Don’t you see?” he asked. “The water will pass through the Bottleneck, here. The second team will descend from the surface and block any exit paths directly beneath the Bottleneck. Several levels deeper is the Devil’s Attic and the spillways that vent to the river. The SEAL team will set their charges in the spillways.” He looked up. “The water will be trapped in the Astor Tunnels. There will be no escape for the Wrinklers. None.”

A low wheeze escaped from the manacled figure, raising the hairs on Margo’s neck.

“I’ll have to lead the second team, of course,” Pendergast went on calmly. “They’ll need a guide, and I’ve already been down once before. I’ve got a crude map, and I’ve studied the city plans for the works closer to the surface. I’d go by myself, but it will take several men to carry the plastique.”

“It won’t work, Judas,” Mephisto rasped. “You’ll never make it down to the Devil’s Attic in time.”

Horlocker suddenly looked up, slamming his fist to the table. “I’ve heard enough,” he snapped. “Playtime’s over. Pendergast, I’ve got a crisis on my hands. So get out.”

“Only I know the tunnels well enough to get you in and out before midnight,” Mephisto hissed, staring intently at Pendergast.

Pendergast returned the gaze, a speculative expression on his face. “You’re probably correct,” he replied at last.

“Enough,” Horlocker snapped at the group of officers who had brought Mephisto in. “Get him downtown. We’ll deal with him once the dust has settled.”

“And what would be in it for you?” Pendergast asked Mephisto.

“Room to live. Freedom from harassment. The grievances of my people redressed.”

Pendergast gazed at Mephisto almost meditatively, his expression unreadable.

“I said, get the man the hell out,” Horlocker roared.

The cops pulled Mephisto to his feet and began to drag him toward the exit.

“Stay where you are,” Pendergast said. His voice was low, but the tone was so commanding the officers instinctively stopped in their tracks.

Horlocker turned, a vein pulsing in his temple. “What’s this?” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Chief Horlocker, I’m taking custody of this individual, under the authority vested in me as a federal agent of the United States government.”

“You’re bullshitting me,” Horlocker replied.

“Pendergast!” Margo hissed. “We’ve got barely two hours.”

The agent nodded, then addressed Horlocker. “I’d like to stay and bandy civilities, but I’m afraid I’ve run out of time,” he said. “Vincent, please get the handcuff key from these gentlemen.”

Pendergast turned toward the knot of policemen. “You, there. Release this man into my custody.”

“Don’t do it!” Horlocker shouted.

“Sir,” one of the officers said, “you can’t fight the Feds, sir.”

Pendergast approached the bedraggled figure, now standing beside D’Agosta and rubbing his manacled wrists. “Mr. Mephisto,” he said in a low voice, “I don’t know what role you played in today’s events, and I can’t guarantee your personal freedom. But if you help me now, perhaps we can rid this city of the killers that have been preying on your community. And I will give my personal guarantee that your demands for homeless rights will be given a fair hearing.” He held out his hand.

Mephisto’s eyes narrowed. “You lied once,” he hissed.

“It was the only way I could make contact with you,” said Pendergast, continuing to hold out his hand. “This isn’t a fight between the haves and have-nots. If it was once, it isn’t anymore. If we fail now, we all go down: Park Avenue and Route 666 alike.”

There was a long pause. At last, Mephisto nodded silently.

“How touching,” said Horlocker. “I hope you all drown in shit.”

= 50 =

SMITHBACK PEERED through the rusting steel grid of the catwalk floor, down into the brick-lined shaft that ran away into vertiginous darkness beneath his feet. He could hear Waxie and the rest—far below him—but he couldn’t see what they were up to. Once again, he fervently hoped that this wouldn’t turn into a wild-goose chase. But he’d followed Waxie all this way; he might as well stick around and see just what the hell was up.

He moved forward cautiously, trying to catch a glimpse of the five men below him. The rotten catwalk hung down from the underside of a gigantic bowl of pitted metal, moving in a long gentle arc toward a vertical shaft that seemed to head for the center of the earth itself. The catwalk sagged with his every movement. Reaching a vertical ladder, he craned his neck out into the chill space and looked downward. A bank of floodlights shone into the shaft, but even their power was inadequate to penetrate deeply into the gloom. A tiny thread of water came from a crack in the vault above and spiraled down through empty space, disappearing silently into the darkness. There was a pinging noise coming from above, like the creaking of a submarine hull under pressure. A steady rush of cold, fresh air blew up from the shaft and stirred the hair on his forehead.

In his wildest dreams, Smithback could not have imagined that such a strange, antique space existed beneath the Central Park Reservoir. He knew that the enormous metal ceiling above him must actually be the drainage basin at the lowest level of the Reservoir, where its earthen bed met the complex tangle of storm drains and feeder tunnels. He tried not to think of the vast bulb of water hanging directly over his head.

He could see the team in the dim spaces below him now, standing on a small platform abutting the ladder. Smithback could vaguely make out a complicated tangle of iron pipes, wheels, and valves, looking like some infernal machine out of an Industrial Age nightmare. The ladder was slimy with condensation, and the tiny platform far below him had no railing. Smithback took a step down the ladder, then thought better of it and retreated. As good a vantage point as any, he thought, curling up on the catwalk. From here, he could see everything that went on, but remain virtually invisible himself.

Flashlights were licking across the brick walls far below him, and the policemen’s voices, rumbled and distorted, floated up to him. He recognized Waxie’s basso profundo from the evening he’d spent in the Museum’s projection booth. The fat cop seemed to be speaking into his radio. Now he put his radio away and turned to the nervous-looking man in shirt sleeves. They seemed to be arguing bitterly about something.