Douglas Preston - Reliquary

Pendergast stopped again. “Nobody speak above a whisper. Understood? Vincent, ready the flash.”

Ahead of them, the tunnel ended in a large sheet of iron punctuated with more rivets. A single door stood open in the middle of the metal wall, and Pendergast glided through, flamethrower at the ready. The flaming tip darted from side to side, leaving a scribble of glowing tracks on Margo’s goggles. In a moment, he turned and motioned the group to follow him.

As she stepped carefully into the enclosed space, Margo realized that the sound beneath her feet was the beating of drums, mingled with what sounded like a low, murmuring chant.

D’Agosta jostled her from behind as he stepped into the compartment, and she jumped forward with a sharp intake of air. She could see ancient brass levers and gears lining one wall, their broken dials encrusted with verdigris and dirt. A massive winch and several rusted generators stood in the far corner.

Pendergast moved swiftly to the center of the room and knelt by a large metal plate. “This was the central switching room for the Astor Tunnels. If I’m correct, we’re directly above the Crystal Pavilion. It was the private waiting room below the old Knickerbocker Hotel. We should be able to see into the Pavilion below.”

He waited until an absolute silence had descended on the group, then he slipped the corroded brackets from the plate and slid it carefully to one side. As Margo watched, a flickering light came streaming up, and the goatish odor—the old, familiar scent of nightmare—grew stronger. The sound of drumming and muffled chanting swelled. Pendergast peered down, the lambent glow from the Crystal Pavilion moving fitfully across his face. He stared for a long time, then stepped back slowly. “Vincent,” he said, “I think perhaps you should take a look.”

D’Agosta stepped forward, tilted up his goggles, and peered into the hole. Margo could see beads of sweat popping out on his brow in the faint light, and his hand unconsciously settled on the butt of his gun. He stepped back wordlessly.

Then Margo felt Smithback push himself forward. He stared, breathing loudly through his nose, hardly seeming to blink.

“Ah, the scriblerian in heat,” whispered Mephisto sarcastically.

But Smithback did not look to Margo as if he was enjoying the view. His hands began to shake, first slightly, then almost uncontrollably. He allowed D’Agosta to pull him away from the viewplate, a look of horror frozen on his face.

Pendergast gestured to Margo. “Dr. Green, I’d like your opinion,” he whispered.

She knelt by the hole, lifted her goggles, and peered down into the cavernous space. For a moment her mind couldn’t quite grasp the image that was spread out beneath her. She found herself looking down through the remains of a shattered chandelier into the center of the vast space. She could make out the ruins of what had once been a room of great elegance: Doric columns, giant murals, and tattered velvet draperies contrasted with the mud and filth that coated the walls. Directly beneath her, in between the cracked candelabra arms and dangling crystals, she could make out the hut of skulls that Pendergast had described. A least a hundred hooded figures stamped and shuffled in front of the hut, swaying in ragged lines, murmuring a toneless, unintelligible chant. In the distance, the monotonous tattoo drummed on as more figures streamed in, taking their places, picking up the chant. Margo stared, blinked, stared again in mingled fascination and horror. There could be no doubt: these were the Wrinklers.

“It seems like some kind of ritual,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” Pendergast replied from the darkness beside her. “No doubt this is the other reason that people were never killed on the nights of the full moon. The ritual, whatever it is, is still in place. The question is, who or what is leading it, now that Kawakita has been killed?”

“It’s quite possible there was some kind of coup d’état, Margo said. “In primitive societies, the shaman was often killed and replaced by a rival shaman, usually a dominant figure from within the group.” She watched, intrigued despite the great fear and loathing she felt. “My God. If only Frock could see this.”

“Yes,” Pendergast replied. “If one of these creatures took Kawakita’s place, killing him in the process, that could explain why the murders have grown more numerous and more vicious.”

“Look at how they walk,” Margo whispered. “Almost as if they were bowlegged. Could be incipient scurvy. If they can’t take vitamin D into their systems, that would be a result.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion, a chorus of guttural sound beyond Margo’s field of vision. The group of Wrinklers shuffled apart. There was a low series of calls, and then Margo saw a figure, cloaked and hooded like the rest, being carried slowly into view in a sedan chair made of bone and twisted leather. As she watched, the procession approached the hut, incorporeal in the flickering light. The sedan chair was carried inside, and the swelling of the chant increased, reverberating through the chamber.

“Looks like the shaman’s arrived,” she said breathlessly. “The ceremony, whatever it is, could start at any moment.”

“Hadn’t we better get moving?” she heard D’Agosta mutter. “I hate to spoil this National Geographic moment, but there’s about thirty pounds of high explosive down the hall, just waiting to go off.”

“That’s correct,” Pendergast said. “And one last charge to set.” He placed his hand on Margo’s arm. “We must get moving, Dr. Green.”

“Just a minute, please,” she hissed. There was a sudden stir in the crowd below, and perhaps a dozen cloaked figures came into view, heading directly for the hut. At the entrance they knelt, arranging several small black objects in a semicircle. The chanting continued as a figure stepped out of the hut, bearing two burning torches.

Margo looked closer, trying to determine what the black things were. There were six of them, and from her vantage point, they looked like irregularly shaped rubber balls. Obviously, they were an integral part of the ceremony. The Chudzi tribe of Natal, she remembered, had used round stones, painted white and red, to symbolize the daily cycle of—

Then one of the figures tugged at the nearest object, the black rubber cowl sloughed away, and Margo took an instinctive step backward, smothering a groan of dismay.

Pendergast quickly moved to the opening and stared downwards for a long moment. Then he stood up and stepped away. “We’ve lost the SEAL team,” he said.

Mephisto came forward, glancing down into the flickering space, his long tangle of beard given a Mephistophelean tinge by the ruddy glow. “Now dearies, don’t forget it’s dangerous to swim after a heavy meal,” he muttered to them.

“You think they set their charges before…?” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off in the darkness.

“We’ll just have to hope they did,” Pendergast murmured, sliding the cover back into position. “Let’s set the last charge and leave while there’s still time. Keep in position. Remember, we’re practically in their nest now. Exercise hypervigilance.”

“Hypervigilance.” Mephisto snorted.

Pendergast gazed toward the homeless leader in mild reproof. “We’ll discuss your low opinion of me—and my own opinion of your taste in haute cuisine—some other time,” he said, turning toward the exit.

They left through a passage on the far side of the housing and moved quickly along the passageway. After traveling about a hundred yards, Pendergast stopped short at a spot where a ragged-walled tunnel came up from below to join the main passageway. The drumming could be heard distinctly, issuing up from the narrow tube.