Douglas Preston: Relic

D’Agosta flicked on the lighter again and continued forward, Smithback following. After several moments, the smell began to dissipate. The ground grew damp and soft beneath his feet. Smithback felt, or imagined he felt, the faintest hint of a cool breeze on his cheek.

D’Agosta laughed. “Christ, that feels fine.”

The tunnel grew damp underfoot, then ended abruptly in another ladder. D’Agosta stepped towards it, reaching up with the lighter. Smithback moved forward eagerly, sniffing the freshening breeze. There was a sudden rushing sound and then a thud-thud! above, and a bright light passed quickly above them, followed by a splash of viscous water.

“A manhole!” D’Agosta cried. “We made it, I can’t believe it, we fucking made it!”

He scrambled up the ladder and heaved against the round plate.

“It’s fastened down,” he grunted. “Twenty men couldn’t lift this. Help!” he started calling, clambering up the ladder and placing his mouth close to one of the pry-holes, “Somebody help us, for Chrissake!” And then he started to laugh, sinking against the metal ladder and dropping the lighter, and Smithback also collapsed to the floor of the passage, laughing, crying, unable to control himself.

“We made it,” D’Agosta said through his laughter. “Smithback! We made it! Kiss me, Smithback—you [440] fucking journalist, I love you and I hope you make a million on this.”

Smithback heard a voice above them from the street.

“You hear somebody yelling?”

“Hey, you up there!” D’Agosta cried out. “Want to earn a reward?”

“Hear that? There is somebody down there. Yo!”

“Did you hear me? Get us out of here!”

“How much?” another voice asked.

“Twenty bucks! Call the fire department, get us out!”

“Fifty bucks, man, or we walk.”

D’Agosta couldn’t stop laughing. “Fifty dollars then! Now get us the hell out of here!”

He turned around and spread his arms. “Smithback, move everybody forward. Folks, Mayor Harper, welcome back to New York City!”

The door rattled once more. Garcia pressed the buttstock tight against his cheek, crying quietly. It was trying to get in again. He took a deep breath and tried to steady the shotgun.

Then he realized that the rattling had resolved itself into a knock.

It sounded again, louder, and Garcia heard a muffled voice.

“Is anyone in there?”

“Who is it?” Garcia answered thickly.

“Special Agent Pendergast, FBI.”

Garcia could hardly believe it. As he opened the door he saw a tall, thin man looking placidly back at him, his pale hair and eyes ghostly in the dim hallway. He held a flashlight in one hand and a large pistol in the other. Blood trailed down one side of his face, and his shirt was soaked in crazy Rorschach patterns. A shortish young woman with mousy brown hair stood beside him, a yellow miner’s lamp dwarfing her head, her face, hair, and sweater covered with more dark, wet stains.

[441] Pendergast finally broke into a grin. “We did it,” he said simply.

Only Pendergast’s grin made Garcia realize that the blood covering the two was not their own. “How—?” he faltered.

They pushed their way past him as the others, lined up under the dark Museum schematic, stared, frozen by fear and disbelief.

Pendergast indicated a chair with the flashlight. “Have a seat, Ms. Green,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Margo, the miner’s light on her forehead bobbing upward. “Such a gentleman.”

Pendergast seated himself. “Does anyone have a handkerchief?” he asked.

Allen came forward, pulling one from his pocket.

Pendergast handed it to Margo, who wiped the blood from her face and handed it back. Pendergast carefully wiped his face and hands. “Much obliged, Mr.-—?”

“Allen. Tom Allen.”

“Mr. Allen.” Pendergast handed the blood-soaked handkerchief to Allen, who started to return it to his pocket, froze, then dropped it quickly. He stared at Pendergast. “Is it dead?”

“Yes, Mr. Allen. It’s quite dead.”

“You killed it?”

“We killed it. Rather, Ms. Green here killed it.”

“Call me Margo. And it was Mr. Pendergast who fired the shot.”

“Ah, but Margo, you told me where to place the shot. I never would have thought of it. All big game—lion, water buffalo, elephant—have eyes on the sides of their head. If they’re charging, you’d never consider the eye. It’s just not a viable shot.”

“But the creature,” Margo explained to Allen, “had a primate’s face. Eyes rotated to the front for stereoscopic vision. A direct path to the brain. And with that incredibly thick skull, once you put a bullet inside the [442] brain, it would simply bounce around until it was spent.”

“You killed the creature with a shot through the eye?” Garcia asked, incredulously.

“I’d hit it several times,” Pendergast said, “but it was simply too strong and too angry. I haven’t had a good look at the creature—I think I’ll leave that until much later—but it’s safe to say that no other shot could have stopped it in time.”

Pendergast adjusted his tie knot with two slender fingers—unusually fastidious, Margo thought, considering the blood and bits of gray matter covering his white shirt. She would never forget the sight of the creature’s brain exploding out of the ruined eye socket, at once a horrifying and beautiful sight. In fact, it was the eyes—the horrible, angry eyes—that had given her a sudden, desperate flash of an idea, even as she’d scrambled backward, away from the rotting stench and slaughterhouse breath.

Suddenly, she was clutching her sides, shivering.

In a moment, Pendergast had motioned to Garcia to give up his uniform jacket. He draped it over her shoulders. “Calm down, Margo,” he said, kneeling at her side. “It’s all over.”

“We have to get Dr. Frock,” she stammered through blue lips.

“In a minute, in a minute,” Pendergast said soothingly.

“Shall we make a report?” Garcia asked. “This radio has just about enough juice left for one more broadcast.”

“Yes, and we have to send a relief party for Lieutenant D’Agosta,” Pendergast said. Then he frowned. “I suppose this means talking to Coffey.”

“I don’t think so,” Garcia said. “Apparently, there’s been a change of command.”

Pendergast’s eyebrows raised. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.” Garcia handed the radio to Pendergast. [443] “An agent named Slade is claiming to be in charge. Why don’t you do the honors?”

“If you wish,” Pendergast said. “I’m glad it’s not Special Agent Coffey. Had it been, I’m afraid I would have taken him to task. I respond sharply to insults.” He shook his head. “It’s a very bad habit, but one I find hard to break.”

= 62 =

Four Weeks Later

When Margo arrived, Pendergast and D’Agosta were already in Frock’s office. Pendergast was examining something on a low table while Frock talked animatedly next to him. D’Agosta was walking restlessly around the office, looking bored, picking things up and putting them down again. The latex cast of the claw sat in the middle of Frock’s desk like a nightmare paperweight. A large cake, purchased by Frock in celebration of Pendergast’s imminent departure, sat in the middle of the warm sunlit room, the white icing already beginning to droop.

“Last time I was there, I had a crayfish gumbo that was truly magnificent,” Frock was saying, gripping Pendergast’s elbow. “Ah, Margo,” he said, wheeling around. “Come in and take a look.”

Margo crossed the room. Spring had finally taken hold of the city, and through the great bow windows she could see the blue expanse of the Hudson River flowing southward, sparkling in the sunlight. On the promenade below, joggers filed past in steady ranks.