Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Sixty-Five

 

Hank Larssen turned to face Cole and Brast. The troopers looked like goggle-eyed monsters in the reddish light.

“I really don’t think this is the way they went,” Larssen said.

The sentence fell away into silence.

“Well?” Larssen looked from Cole to Brast. The two state troopers almost looked like twins: fit, wiry, crew-cut, taut jawlines, steely eyes. Or rather, once-steely eyes. Now, even in the pale wash of the night-vision goggles they looked confused and uncertain. It had been a mistake, he realized, to leave the huge cavern of limestone pillars looking for Hazen. The barking of the dogs had gone suddenly silent, and they’d taken off down one of the countless side passages in what seemed like the direction of retreating footsteps. But the passage had divided, once, then twice, before turning into a confusing welter of crisscrossing tunnels. Once he thought he’d heard Hazen calling out his name. But there had been no more sounds for the last ten minutes, at least. It was going to be a real chore just to find their way back out.

He wondered how he’d become the de facto leader of this happy little picnic. Cole and Brast were both part of the much-vaunted “high-risk entry team” and had trained for special situations like this. At the state police HQ they had a gym, workout facilities, a pool, shooting range, special training seminars, and weekend retreats. Larssen sure hoped he wasn’t going to have to hand-hold these guys.

“Wake up, you two. Did you hear me? I said, I don’t think this is the way they went.”

“I don’t know,” said Brast. “It seems right to me.”

“It seems right to you,” Larssen repeated sarcastically. “And you, Cole?”

Cole just shook his head.

“All right, that settles it. We turn around and get out of here.”

“What about Hazen?” Cole said. “Weeks?”

“Sheriff Hazen and Officer Weeks are trained law enforcement personnel who can take care of themselves.”

The two troopers just looked at him.

“Are we all in agreement on this?” Larssen asked, raising his voice. Damned idiots.

“I’m with you,” Brast said with evident relief.

“Cole?”

“I don’t like leaving people down here,” said Cole.

A real hero,thought Larssen. “Sergeant Cole, it’s pointless to wander around down here any longer. We can go for backup. They could be anywhere in this maze. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already on their way out.”

Cole licked his lips. “All right,” he said.

“Then let’s go.”

They had been circling their way back toward the limestone forest for five minutes and had reached an unfamiliar-looking crossroads when Larssen first heard the sound. The others must have heard it, too, because they spun around with him. It was faint, but unmistakable: the sound of running footsteps, approaching at high speed. But not human, no: the tattoo of heavy footfalls was too rapid for that.

It was something big.

“Weapons!” shouted Larssen, dropping to one knee and raising the riot gun to his shoulder. He took aim down the intersecting tunnel.

The running came closer, accompanied by a metallic clanking. And now a big reddish form materialized out of the darkness. Whatever it was, it was huge.

“Ready!”

The thing bore down on them with terrible speed. It tore through a shallow puddle, raising a curtain of droplets in its wake.

“Wait!” Larssen said abruptly. “Hold your fire!”

It was one of the dogs.

The animal hurtled toward them, utterly heedless of their presence, the wide wild eyes staring fixedly ahead. The only sound it made was the drumming of its huge paws against the stone. As it flashed past, Larssen saw that the animal was covered with blood, and that one of the ears was torn away, as well as part of the lower jaw. Big black lips and tongue flapped loosely, dripping foam and blood.

In another second it was gone, the sound of its flight fading away. Then silence returned. It had all happened so quickly that Larssen almost wondered if he’d imagined it. “What the fuck?” Brast whispered. “Did you see—?”

Larssen swallowed, but no moisture came. His mouth felt dry as sawdust. “He must’ve slipped, fallen.”

“Bullshit,” said Cole, his voice unnaturally loud in the confined space. “You don’t lose half your jaw in a fall. Someone attacked that dog.”

“Or some thing,” Brast muttered.

“For chrissakes, Brast,” said Larssen, “show some backbone.”

“Why was he running like that? That dog was scared shitless.”

Larssen said, “Let’s just get out of here.”

“No argument there.”

They turned back, Larssen keeping his eyes on the damp tracks of the dog. They could probably follow those with confidence; that would make things a whole lot easier.

Brast spoke into the silence. “I heard something.”

They paused once again.

“Something splashing through that puddle back there.”

“Don’t start again, Brast.”

Then Larssen heard it, too: the faint splash of a footfall in water, followed by another. He stared down the dark tunnel behind them, the cavern walls a red wash in his goggles. He could make out nothing.

“Just dripping water, probably.” He shrugged, turned back to follow the dog tracks.

Muh!

Brast gave a yell, and at the same time Larssen felt a sudden brutal shove from behind that sent him sprawling to the ground, his night-vision goggles flying. Brast was still yelling, and Cole gave a sudden, sharp scream.

Larssen was blind. In desperation he crawled around on his hands and knees, feeling the ground, and then with enormous relief felt his hands close on the goggles. He slipped them back onto his head with thick stupid fingers and looked around.

Cole was on the ground, yelling and clutching his arm. Brast was on his hands and knees against the cavern wall, scrabbling around for his goggles just like Larssen had been a second before, cursing and gasping.

“My arm!” Cole screamed. A spear of bone protruded from his arm at a strange angle and hot blood poured from the wound, almost white in the sheen of the goggles.

Larssen tore his eyes from the sight and looked around wildly for whatever had attacked them, shotgun at the ready, but there was nothing—nothing but the grim artificial glow of the cavern walls.

A single sound, like a hoot of laughter or perhaps triumph, came from the darkness somewhere. Larssen tightened his grip on the shotgun. Exactly where it had come from was impossible to tell.

He was sure of only one thing: it was close.

Sixty-Six

 

Corporal Shurte of the Kansas Highway Patrol fingered his shotgun and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He checked his watch: eleven-thirty. Hazen and the rest had been gone for over an hour. How long did it take to corner McFelty, cuff him, and drag his ass out? It was unnerving, standing out here without any contact. Part of it, of course, was the weather. He’d lived in this part of Kansas all his life but he couldn’t remember ever seeing a storm like this one. Usually, the really ugly weather came and went pretty quick. But this had been going on for hours, it seemed, and it was only getting worse. Unbelievable wind, pelting rain, lightning like to split the sky. Before radio communications had finally gone down there’d been early reports of an F-3 tornado chewing toward Deeper, all hell breaking lose, FEMA trying to get in, the highways blocked.

And the power: usually you’d get one grid segment, maybe two, down at a time. But tonight it had been like a giant hand pulling the plug on one tiny town after the next. After Medicine Creek it had been Hickok, DePew, Ulysses, Johnson City, Lakin, and finally Deeper, before his radio had stopped working altogether from the loss of repeater stations. Shurte was from Garden City and he was glad the other side of the county seemed to be taking the worst of it. Still, he worried about his wife and kids. It was a hell of a night to be away from home.

The hooded propane lamp they’d set up cast a faint glow around the mouth of the cave. Williams, standing on the far side of the cut, looked like a zombie, hunched against the rain, big dark hollows where his eyes should be. The only thing that made him look remotely human was the glowing cigarette that dangled from his lower lip.

Another bolt of lightning cracked the sky, tearing almost from horizon to horizon. Beyond the cave, it flashed a brief image of the big old Kraus mansion, all alone and dilapidated, darkened by the rain.

He glanced over at Williams. “So how long are we going to stake out the entrance? I mean, I’m getting soaked.”

Williams dropped his cigarette, ground it under his boot, shrugged.

There was another flash. Shurte glanced at the dark slot that led down into the cave. Maybe they had the perp holed up and were trying to persuade him to come out . . .

And then from the mouth of the cave, over the sound of the wind, he heard the heavy galloping of feet.

He took a step forward, raising his shotgun. “You hear that?” he began sharply.

A dark form suddenly came hurtling up the passage toward them: a huge dog, running like mad, chain twitching and lashing behind like a whip, feet drumming.

“Williams!” Shurte shouted.

The animal blew out of the cave mouth and into the open. Just then there was another terrific rip of lightning, followed instantaneously by an earth-shaking crash. The dog hesitated, confused, turning around and around, snapping at the air, eyes rolling and wild. In the livid lightning Shurte saw that it was bright red, wet and glistening.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

The dog crouched toward the light of the lantern, still trembling violently—all without making a sound.

“Son of a bitch,” said Williams. “You see his mouth? Looks like he caught a load of buckshot.”

The dog staggered, the blood pooling underneath him, and then righted himself, massive limbs shaking uncontrollably.

“Catch him,” said Shurte. “Grab his chain.”

Williams crouched and slowly picked up the end of the chain. The dog just stood there, still now, trembling with pain and terror.

“Easy, boy. Easy. Good dog.”

Williams slowly lifted the end of the leash toward the only suitable tie spot: a protruding pin on the door hinge of the cave. Suddenly the dog, feeling the gentle tug on his neck, whirled with a screech of fury and slashed out at Williams. The man went down with a howl, dropping the leash, and in a second the dog was gone, a black shape hurtling away into the cornfields.

“Son of a bitch bit me!” Williams cried, holding his leg.

Shurte rushed over and directed his flashlight at the fallen trooper. The pants were torn and blood welled from a gash in his thigh.

“Jesus, Williams,” Shurte said, shaking his head. “And to think he did that with only half a jaw.”

Sixty-Seven

 

Larssen bent over Cole, who was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth and whimpering to himself. It was an ugly compound fracture, the jagged end of bone sticking out just above the elbow.

“I can’t see!” said Brast loudly from somewhere behind him. “I can’t see!”

“Cool it,” Larssen replied. He looked around, scouring the ground with his own set of goggles. They had all lost their goggles in the attack. He saw one of the sets lying in a puddle of water, one of its lenses broken. The other set was nowhere to be found. Was he the only one still able to see? It seemed so.

“Help me find my goggles!” Brast cried.

“They’re out of commission.”

“No, no!”

“Brast? Cole’s hurt. Pull yourself together.”

Larssen took off his shirt and tore it into strips, doing his best to ignore the chill dampness of the cave. He looked around for something that would do as a splint but saw nothing usable. Better to bind the arm to the torso and leave it at that. The important thing now was to get the hell out of there. Larssen wasn’t particularly frightened—he’d never had quite the right imaginative equipment for fear—but he perfectly understood the seriousness of their situation. Whoever attacked them, it was someone who knewthe cave inside out. Someone who’d been down here a very long time. Someone who could come and go at will, and very quickly. He’d seen his outline: big, shambling, with a hunched back from years of living under low ceilings . . .

Hazen had only been half right. The killer was in the cave, but it sure as hell wasn’t McFelty—or anyone connected with Lavender, for that matter. This was something a lot weirder and deeper than that.

He forced himself back to the problem at hand. “Cole?” he asked.

“Yes?” Cole’s voice was weak and he could see the man was sweating. Shock.

“I don’t have anything to splint your arm with, so I’m going to immobilize it by tying it to your chest.”

Cole nodded.

“It’s going to hurt.”

Cole nodded again.

Larssen tied two of the strips into loops and hung them around Cole’s neck to form a sling, and then, as gently as possible, took hold of his arm and slid it in. Cole winced, cried out.

“What was that?” Brast shouted in a panic. “Is heback?”

“It’s nothing. Just stay calm, keep quiet, and do what I tell you.” Larssen tried to make his voice sound reassuring. He would almost rather have ended up with Hazen. The sheriff might be an asshole, but nobody could accuse him of cowardice.

Larssen tore another couple of strips from the shirt and tied them around Cole’s torso, binding up and immobilizing the broken arm. The broken bones grated against each other, and Cole winced. He was sweating profusely now, and shaking.

“Can you stand up?”

Cole nodded, rose, staggered. Larssen steadied him.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so,” he grunted.

“You’re not going, are you?” cried out Brast, groping for Larssen in the darkness.

“We’re all going.”

“But what about my goggles?”

“As I said, they’re broken.”

“Let me see them.”

With a hiss of irritation Larssen picked them out of the water and handed them to Brast. The man felt them frantically, tried to turn them on. There was a spark and a hiss. He hurled them away, his voice high and panicky. “Sweet Jesus, how are we ever going to get out of—”

Larssen reached out and grabbed a fistful of Brast’s shirt, gave it a good screw. “Brast?”

“Did you see it? Did you see it—?”

“No, and neither did you. Now shut up and do what I tell you. Turn around, I’ll need to get at your pack a moment. I’m going to make a lifeline with your rope. I’ll tie it around my waist and then pass it back to you and Cole. You hang on with one hand and help Cole along. Got it?”

“Yes, but—”

Larssen gave Brast a hard shake. “I said, shut the hell up and do what I tell you.”

Brast fell silent.

Larssen reached into the pack, found the rope, and tied it around his own waist. That left about ten feet or so of slack, and he made sure Brast and Cole grasped it tightly.

“Now we’re getting out of here. Keep tension on the rope, don’t drop it, and for God’s sake keep quiet.”

Larssen began moving slowly back through the long black passage. A trembling that had little to do with the chill air had settled into his bare limbs. Brast’s desperate Did you see it?ran through his head despite his best efforts to block it. The truth was, Larssen had gotten just a glimpse; just a glimpse, but it had been enough . . .

Don’t think about it. The important thing is to get out.

Behind him Cole and Brast, both blind, shuffled and stumbled. Once in a while Larssen would murmur warnings about obstacles, or stop to help the troopers through some tricky place. They moved slowly, and agonizing minutes passed before they reached the next fork in the tunnel.

Larssen examined the fork, noticed the direction of the bloody paw prints. They set off again, moving a little faster now. The floor was covered in rills and shallow pools, and the sound of their splashing echoed in the cave. The prints grew few and far between here. If they could just find their way back to the big cavern with the limestone pillars, they’d be all right; he was pretty sure he knew the way from there.

“Are you sure we came this way?” Brast asked, his voice high and tense.

“Yes,” said Larssen.

“What the hell attacked us? Did you see it? Did—?”

Turning and reaching past Cole, Larssen backhanded Brast sharply across the face.

“I saw it! I saw it! I saw it!”

Larssen didn’t answer. If Brast didn’t shut up soon, he thought he might kill him.

“It wasn’t human. It was some kind of Neanderthal. With a face like . . . oh, dear God, like a big—”

“I said, shut up.”

“I won’tshut up. You need to hear this. Whatever we’re up against, it isn’t natural—”

“Brast?” It was Cole, speaking through gritted teeth.

“What?”

With his good arm Cole aimed his riot gun down the dark tunnel and pulled the trigger. It erupted with a deafening crash. A shower of pebbles dislodged by the vibration danced off their shoulders while the sound echoed and reechoed crazily, rolling back and forth in the deep spaces.

“Jesus, what the fuck was that!” Brast fairly screamed.

Cole grabbed for the rope and waited for the echoes to die down. Then he spoke again. “If you don’t shut up, Brast, the next one’s for you.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Come on,” Larssen said. “We’re wasting time.”

They continued on, stopping briefly at another intersection. The set of bloody dog prints led to the right, and they followed these into another low passageway. A few minutes later the tunnel opened up into a huge cavern, draped on two sides by curtains of limestone and filled with massive pillars. Larssen felt immense relief. They’d found it.

Cole stumbled, grunted, then half sat in a puddle of water.

“Don’t stop,” said Larssen, grabbing his good arm and helping him rise. “I know where we are now. We’ve got to keep going until we’re out of here.”

Cole nodded, coughed, took a step, stumbled, took another. He’s going deep into shock,thought Larssen. They had to get out before he collapsed entirely.

They made their way through the forestlike cavern. Several tunnels led away from the far wall, looking like yawning mouths in the pink wash of the goggles. Larssen didn’t remember seeing that many tunnels. He looked on the ground for the dog tracks, but the shallow flow of water on the ground here had erased any trace.

“Wait,” he said abruptly. “Quiet.”

They stopped. There was a sound of splashing from behind that could not be explained by the echoes of the gallery. After another moment, it, too, stopped.

“He’s behind us!” said Brast in a loud voice.

Larssen pulled them behind one of the trunklike pillars, readied his shotgun, then peered out with his goggles. The cavern was empty. Could it have been just an echo, after all?

Turning back, he saw Cole leaning unsteadily, half conscious, against the limestone pillar.

“Cole!” He hauled him to his feet. Cole coughed, swayed. Larssen quickly leaned him over, head between his legs.

Cole vomited.

Brast said nothing, trembling, his eyes wide with fear, uselessly searching the darkness.

Larssen reached down, cupped some water, splashed it over Cole’s face. “Cole? Hey, Cole!”

The man sagged to one side, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He had passed out.

“Cole!” Larssen patted some more water into his face, gave him a few light slaps.

Cole coughed, retched again.

“Cole!”Larssen tried to keep the man on his feet, but his limp form felt like a sack of cement. “Brast, help me, goddammit.”

“How? I can’t see.”

“Feel your way along the rope. Do you know the fireman’s carry?”

“Yeah but—”

“Let’s do it.”

“I can’t see,and besides, we don’t have time. Let’s leave him here and get help from—”

“I’ll leave youhere,” said Larssen. “How would you like that?” He found Brast’s hands and locked them together with his in a basket grip. Larssen guiding, they stooped together, embraced Cole’s sagging form, tried to rise again.

“Christ, he weighs a ton,” Brast said, gasping.

At that same moment Larssen heard a distinct splash, then another: heavy footfalls in the shallow pools they had come through just moments before.

“I tell you, there’s something behind us,” Brast said as he strained desperately to lift Cole. “Did you hear it?”

“Just move.”

Cole slumped backward, threatening to slide out of their grip. They maneuvered him into place again and moved forward painfully.

The splashing continued from behind.

Larssen looked back but saw only indistinct washes of pinks and reds. He looked forward again, chose a narrow passage in the far wall that looked like it might be the right one, made doggedly toward it. If he could get to a defensible location, he could hold the thing off with his gun . . .

“God,” said Brast, his voice breaking. “Oh God, oh God . . .”

They ducked into the low passage, carrying Cole between them as quickly as they could. Larssen staggered as the rope caught his ankles; he straightened up, went forward again. After a short distance, the ceiling rose toward a weird formation of a thousand needlelike stalactites, some as thin as threads.

Oh God, I don’t remember that,thought Larssen.

Another splash from the darkness behind them.

Suddenly, Brast tripped against a rock. Cole slumped from their grasp and fell heavily onto his broken arm. He groaned loudly, rolled over, and lay still.

Larssen let him go, fumbling with his gun, aiming into the darkness.

“What is it?” Brast cried. “What’s there?”

At that moment a monstrous shape came hurtling out of the darkness. Larssen cried out, firing as he stumbled backward, while Brast stood in terror, feet rooted to the ground, his arms clawing at the darkness. “Jesus, don’t leave me—!”

Larssen grabbed his hand, yanked him away. As he did so, the shape fell upon the supine form of Cole. The two figures blurred together, a reddish tangle in the goggles. Larssen staggered backward again, tugging at Brast while at the same time struggling to get his gun back up. He heard a rending sound like a drumstick being wrenched off a turkey. Cole screamed abruptly: a terrible falsetto squeak.

“Help me!” cried Brast, clutching at Larssen like a drowning man, knocking him back and spoiling his aim. Larssen savagely shoved him away while trying to raise the shotgun, but Brast was all over him again, sobbing, clutching at him like a drowning man.

The gun went off but the shot was wide, sending long needles of limestone crashing to the ground, and then the shape was up and facing them. Larssen froze in horror: it was holding Cole’s severed arm in one fist, the fingers still pulsing spasmodically. Larssen fired again, but he had hesitated too long and the shape was rising toward them, and all he could do was turn and flee down the dank tunnel, Brast yelling incoherently and blindly at his back.

Farther behind, Cole was still screaming.

Larssen ran and ran.

Sixty-Eight

 

For a long time Corrie lay in the wet dark, confused and dreamy, wondering where she was, what had happened to her room, her bed, her window. And then she sat up, her head pounding, and with the return of the pain came the memory of the cave, the monster . . . and the pit.

She listened. All was silent save the dripping of water. She finally stood, swaying slightly, the pounding in her head subsiding. She reached out and her hands encountered the slick, smooth wall of the pit.

She made a circuit, running her hands up and down the wet wall, seeking handholds, cracks, anything she might use to climb out. But the walls were of the slickest stone, smoothed by water, impossible to climb. And what would she do once she got out? Without a light she was as good as trapped.

It was hopeless. There was no way out. All she could do was wait. Wait for the monster to come back.

Corrie felt overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness and misery so powerful it made her physically sick. Her despair was all the worse for the hope that had been raised in her brief dash to escape. But here, in the pit, there was no hope left. No one knew where she was, that she’d gone into the cave. Eventually the thing would come back. Ready to play.

She sobbed at the thought.

It would be the end of her miserable, useless life.

Corrie leaned against the slick wall, sank to the ground. She began to cry. Years of bottled-up misery came pouring out. Images flashed through her mind. She remembered coming home from fifth grade, sitting at the kitchen table and watching her mother drink miniature vodka bottles, one after another, wondering why she liked them so much. She remembered, two years ago, her mother coming home at two o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve, drunk, with some man. No stockings, no presents, nothing that Christmas. It was a late, rise-at-noon, hungover morning like any other. She remembered the triumphant day when she was able to buy her Gremlin with the money she had earned from working at the Book Nook before its demise—and how furious her mother had been when Corrie brought it home. She thought about the sheriff, his son, the smell of the high school halls, the winter snowstorms that covered the stubbled fields in unbroken blankets of white. She thought about reading books under the powerlines in the heat of summer, the snide whispered comments of the jocks passing her in the halls.

He was going to come back and kill her and it would all be gone, every miserable memory now crowding her head. They’d never find her body. There’d be a halfhearted search and then everyone would forget about her. Her mother would tear apart her room and eventually find the money taped to the underside of her bureau drawers, and then she’d be happy. Happy that it was now all hers.

She cried freely, the sound echoing and reechoing above her head.

Now her mind wandered further back, to her early childhood. She remembered one Sunday morning getting up early and making pancakes with her father, carrying the eggs around and chanting like the soldiers in The Wizard of Oz.All her memories of him seemed to be happy: of him laughing, kidding around, squirting her with the hose on a hot summer day or taking her down to swim in the creek. She remembered him polishing his Mustang convertible, polishing and polishing, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, his blue eyes sparkling, holding her up so she could see her reflection in it, then taking her for a ride. She remembered effortlessly, as clear as if it had been last week, how the cornfields parted with their passing; the exhilarating sensation of acceleration, of freedom.

And now, in the silence, in the absolute final blackness of the pit, she felt all the protective walls she had carefully built for herself over the years start to crumble, one by one. In this moment of extremis, the only questions that remained in her head were the ones she had rarely ever allowed herself to ask: Why had he left? Why had he never come back to visit? What was so wrong with her that he’d never wanted to see her again?

But the darkness would allow no self-delusion. She had another memory, not all that distant: of coming home and finding her mother burning a letter in the ashtray. Had it been from him? Why hadn’t she confronted her mother? Was it out of fear that the letter wasn’t, in fact, what she hoped it was?

This last question hung in the blackness, unanswered. There could be no answer, not now. It would soon end, here, in this pit, and the question would be moot. Maybe her father would never even know she was dead . . .

She thought of Pendergast, the only person who had ever treated her like an adult. And now she’d failed him, too. Stupidly going into the cave without telling anyone. Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .

She sobbed again, loudly, painfully, giving full vent to her feelings. But the sound echoed so horribly, so mockingly, around and above her that she swallowed, choked, and fell silent.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” she said out loud.

Her voice echoed and died away and then she caught her breath. There was a distinct whisper in the dark.

Was hecoming back?

She listened intently. There were more sounds now, faint sounds, so distant and distorted they were impossible to make out. Voices? Yelling? Screaming? She strained, listening.

And then there was a long, echoing sound, almost like the roar of rolling surf.

A gunshot.

And suddenly she was on her feet, crying out, “Here I am! Help me! Over here! Please! Please! Please! Please!”

Sixty-Nine

 

Weeks struggled to keep up with Pendergast as the FBI agent hurried through the cave. The way the man flicked his flashlight around, Weeks wondered if he missed anything. Probably not. It felt a little reassuring.

The air of purpose that radiated from the agent had helped steady Weeks’s shattered nerves. He even felt some vestiges of his old aggrieved self returning. And yet he could not get out of his mind the image of the dog being ripped limb from limb by that . . . by that . . .

He stopped.

“What’s that?” he asked in a high, quavering voice.

Pendergast spoke without looking back. “Officer Weeks? I expect you to follow my lead.”

“But I heard something—”

Pendergast’s slender white hand landed on his shoulder. Weeks was about to say more but fell silent as the pressure on his shoulder grew more intense.

“This way, Officer.” The voice spoke with a silvery gentleness, but it somehow chilled Weeks to the bone.

“Yes, sir.”

As they proceeded, he heard the sound once again. It seemed to come from ahead, a drawn-out, echoing noise that reverberated back and forth through the endless caverns, impossible to identify. A scream? A shotgun blast? The one thing Weeks felt sure of was that, whatever the sound might be, Pendergast was going to head directly for it.

He swallowed his protest and followed.

They moved through a narrow warren of passages whose low ceilings were covered with glistening crystals. Weeks scraped his head against the needle-sharp crystals, cursed, and ducked lower: this wasn’t the way he’d come with the dogs. Pendergast’s light moved back and forth, exposing nests of cave pearls clustered together in chalky pools. The sounds had finally died away, leaving only the faint plash of their own steps.

Then Pendergast halted suddenly, his light shining steadily on something. Weeks looked. At first he couldn’t make out exactly what it was: an arrangement of objects on a shelf of flat stone, clustered around some larger central object. It looked like a shrine of some kind. Weeks leaned closer. Then his eyes widened with shock and he stepped back. It was an old teddy bear, furred with mold. The bear was arranged as if it were praying: hands clasped before it, one beady black eye staring out from creeping tendrils of fungus.