Текст книги "Still Life With Crows"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“What the hell—?” Weeks began.

Pendergast’s light shifted to what the bear had been praying to. In the yellow glow of the flashlight, it was little more than a mound of silky mold. Weeks watched as Pendergast bent over and, with a gold pen, carefully pulled away the mold, exposing a tiny skeleton underneath.

“Rana amaratis,”Pendergast said.

“What?”

“A rare species of blind cave frog. You will note the bones were broken peri-mortem. This frog was crushed to death in somebody’s fist.”

Weeks swallowed. “Look,” he ventured one last time, “it’s insane to keep going deeper into the cave like this. We should be getting out of here, getting help.”

But Pendergast had returned his attention to the objects around the teddy bear. With care he exposed more small skeletons and partially decomposed insect bodies. Then he went back to the teddy bear, picked it up, brushed off the mold, and examined it carefully.

Weeks looked around nervously. “Come on, come on.”

He shut up as the FBI agent turned toward him. Pendergast’s pale eyes were distant, focusing on some inner thought.

“What is it?” Weeks breathed. “What does it mean?”

Pendergast returned the bear to its place and said merely, “Let us go.”

The FBI agent was moving faster now, stopping only infrequently to check the map he was carrying. The sound of water was louder now, and they were now wading almost constantly. The air was so chill and damp that their breath left trails. Weeks tried to keep up, tried to keep his mind off what he’d seen. This was insane, where the hell were they going? When he got back– ifhe got back—the first thing he’d do was put in for disability leave, because he’d be lucky if post–traumatic stress syndrome was all he got from—

Then Pendergast halted suddenly. His light disclosed a body lying on the cave floor. The figure lay on its back, eyes wide open, arms and legs flung wide. The head was strangely elongated, like it had expanded and flattened, and the back of the skull had burst open like an overripe pumpkin. The eyes were bugged out, looking in two different directions. The mouth was wide open– toowide. Weeks looked away.

“What happened?” he managed to say, struggling to hold back the terror.

Pendergast raised his light toward the ceiling. There was a dark hole in the roof of the cavern. Then he let it fall once again to the body. “Can you identify him, Officer?”

“Raskovich. The campus security guy from Kansas State.”

Pendergast nodded and looked back up into the narrow hole overhead. “It would seem Mr. Raskovich had a great fall,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Weeks shut his eyes. “Oh, my God.”

Pendergast motioned him forward. “We must go on.”

But Weeks had had enough. “I’m not going one step more. Just what do you think you’re doing, anyway?” The panic elevated his voice louder and louder. “The dog’s dead, Raskovich is dead. You’ve seen them both. There’s a monster down here. What more do you want? I’mthe one that’s still alive. I’mthe one you should be worrying about right now. I’m—”

Pendergast turned back. And Weeks stopped in mid-rant, involuntarily, at the steady, contemptuous gaze of the FBI agent.

After a moment, Weeks averted his eyes. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, we’re wasting our time.” His voice cracked. “What makes you so sure this girl is still alive, anyway?”

As if in answer, he heard a response: faint, distorted, and yet unmistakable. It was the sound of someone crying for help.

Seventy

 

Larssen ran like hell, Brast behind him, holding on to the rope, careering from rock wall to rock wall, somehow managing in his blindness to keep up. It had been a couple of minutes since the screaming had stopped but Larssen could still hear it in his mind, playing over and over again like some infernal recording: the final scream of Cole ending abruptly in the sound of cracking bones. Whatever had done that—whatever was pursuing them now—wasn’t completely human. It really was some kind of monster.

It couldn’t be true. But he’d seen it. He’d seenit.

He paid no attention to where he was going, what tunnel he was in, whether he was heading back toward the surface or deeper into the caverns. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was put distance between himself and the thing.

They came to a pool, pale, shimmering red in the goggles, and Larssen waded in without hesitation, the icy water eventually reaching his bare chest before shoaling. Brast followed blindly, as best he could. On the far side, the ceiling of the cave became very low. Larssen moved forward more slowly, sweeping his gun back and forth, breaking off the sharp stalactites that hung before his face. The ceiling dropped still farther, and there was an ugly noise, followed by a desperate curse, as Brast hit his head against it.

Then the ceiling rose again, revealing an odd, broken room with cracks leading off in myriad directions. Larssen stopped, looking up and down and sideways, and felt the scrabbling Brast blunder into his back.

“Larssen? Larssen?” Brast clutched at him as if to make sure he was real.

“Quiet.” Larssen listened carefully. There was no sound of splashing behind them. The thing was not following.

Had they gotten away?

He checked his watch: almost midnight. God knows how long they had been running.

“Brast,” he whispered. “Listen to me. We’ve got to hide until we can be rescued. We’ll never find our way out, and if we keep wandering around we’ll just run into that thing again.”

Brast nodded. His face was scratched, his clothes muddy; his eyes were dumb, blank with terror. Blood was running freely from a nasty gash in his crew-cut scalp.

Larssen looked forward again, shining his infrared headlamp around. There was a crack high up on the wall, larger than the others, vomiting a frozen river of limestone. It looked just big enough to admit a person.

“I’m going to check something. Give me a hand up.”

“Don’t leave me!”

“Keep your voice down. I’ll only be gone a minute.”

Brast gave him a fumbling hand up, and within moments Larssen was into the high crack. He looked around, bare arms shivering in the chill air. Then he untied the rope from around his waist and dropped one end back down to Brast and hissed for him to climb up.

Brast fumbled and pulled his way up the slippery rock wall.

Larssen led them deeper into the crack. The floor was rough and strewn with large rocks. After a few yards, it became a tunnel that opened up enough for them to proceed in a crouched position.

“Let’s see where it leads,” Larssen whispered.

Another minute of crawling brought them to the edge of blackness. The tunnel simply ended in a sheer drop.

Larssen put a steadying hand on Brast. “Stay there.”

He peered carefully out over the edge of the hole but could see no bottom. He reached for a pebble, lobbed it in, and began to count. When he reached thirty, he gave up.

Overhead was a sheer chimney, with a thin thread of water spiraling down at them through space. There was no way the thing could come at them from that direction. He could come up only from the crack through which they’d just come.

Perfect.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Brast. “Don’t go any farther, there’s a pit.”

“A pit? How deep?”

“As far as you’re concerned it’s bottomless. Just stay put. I’ll be right back.”

He returned to the crack’s entrance and, lying on his stomach, began dragging over the surrounding rocks and fitting them into the hole. In five minutes he had piled the rocks high enough to completely seal off the crack. The killer, if he even got to the broken-up cavern below, would see only rock. No opening. They had found the perfect hiding place.

He turned to Brast, speaking very quietly. “Listen to me. No sound, no movement. Nothing that could betray us. We’ll wait here for a real SWAT team to come down and clear that bastard out of the cave. In the meantime, we stay put, and keep quiet.”

Brast nodded. “But are we safe? Are you sure we’re safe?”

“As long as you keep your mouth shut.”

They waited, the silence and darkness growing ever more oppressive. Larssen leaned back against the wall, shutting his eyes and listening to his own breathing, trying not to dwell on the madman roaming the caverns beyond.

He heard Brast next to him, restless, shifting. He felt irritated: even the smallest noise might betray them. He opened his eyes, adjusted the goggles, and looked over.

“Brast! No!”

It was too late; there was a brief scritchand a match flared into light. Larssen smacked it out of his hand, and it dropped to the ground with a hiss. The sulfurous smell of the match lingered in the darkness.

“What the hell—?”

“You son of a bitch,” Larssen hissed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I found matches.” Brast was weeping openly now. “In my pocket. You said we were safe, that he couldn’t find us. I can’t take this darkness any longer. I can’t.”

There was a faint scratching noise, then another match flared into light. Brast sobbed with relief, his eyes wide and staring.

And suddenly, Larssen, half-naked and shivering, realized he didn’t have the will to douse the friendly yellow glow anymore. Besides, he had piled the rocks pretty deep. The feeble light from a tiny match surely wouldn’t leak out into the cave beyond.

He pushed the goggles onto his forehead and looked around, blinking his eyes. For the first time, he could see things in crisp, clear detail. Tiny as it was, the flame gave out a welcome glow of warmth in this awful place.

They were in a small, compartmentlike space. Five or six feet beyond, the sheer drop began. Behind them and past the low ceiling was their exit, blocked with rubble. They were safe.

“Maybe I can find something we can burn,” Brast was saying. “Something to give a little warmth.”

Larssen watched as the state trooper felt among his pockets. At least it kept Brast quiet.

Brast cursed under his breath as the match burnt his fingers. As he lit a third, there was a faint sound from behind Larssen: the clink of a rock being moved. Then the sound of falling, rolling; first one rock, then another.

“Put it out, Brast!” he hissed.

But Brast had turned and risen with the match in his hand, and was now looking behind Larssen, his face slackening with fear. For a terrible moment, Brast did not move. And then, very suddenly, he turned and ran blindly, mindlessly, off the edge into the pit.

“Noooo—!” Larssen cried.

But Brast was already gone, into the abyss, the burning match that had been in his hand dancing and flickering on an updraft before winking out.

Larssen waited for what seemed forever, heart hammering, listening in the pitch blackness to the rough breathing that echoed his own. And then, with numb fingers, he slowly put his goggles on and turned inexorably to stare, himself, into the face of nightmare.

Seventy-One

 

Rheinbeck sat in the darkened parlor, rocking back and forth, back and forth in the old, straight-backed chair. He was almost glad the house was so dark because he felt ridiculous: sitting here in his blacked-out raid wear, Kevlar vest, and bloused BDU pants, surrounded by lace antimacassars, crochet work, and frilly doilies. Assignment: little old lady.

Shit.

The big old house still groaned and creaked under the howling of the storm outside, but at least the shrieks of the old lady from the basement tornado shelter had subsided. He had double-locked the massive storm door and it was pretty clear she wasn’t going anywhere. She’d be safe down there, a lot safer than him if a tornado came along.

It was well past midnight. What the hell were they doing down there? He watched the feeble glow of the propane lantern, turning over various scenarios in his mind. They probably had the guy trapped and were negotiating him out. Rheinbeck had seen a couple of hostage negotiations in his time and they sometimes went on forever. Communications were down, trees lay across most of the roads, and nobody was going to respond to his call for an ambulance and doctor for the old lady: not with Deeper shredded and the whole county under a Force-3 tornado alert. This was a medical situation, not a law enforcement one; and damned awkward at that.

Jesus God, what a shitty assignment.

There was a shriek and the sudden pop of glass. Rheinbeck sprang to his feet, chair tilting crazily behind him, before he realized it was just whipsawing tree branches and another window getting blown out by the wind. Just what the place needed: more ventilation. Now that the cold front had passed over, it was remarkable how chilly the air had grown. The rain was already pouring in one broken window, puddles running across the floor. He righted the chair and sat back down. The boys back at HQ would never let him live this one down.

The propane lantern guttered and he looked over at it, scowling. It figured: some jackass hadn’t bothered to screw in a fresh canister, and now the thing was about to go out. He shook his head, rose, and went to the fireplace. A fire was laid and ready to go; above the hearth, on the stone mantelpiece, he noticed an old box of kitchen matches.

He stood for a minute, thinking. Hell with it,he decided. As long as he was stuck in this creepy old place, he might as well make himself comfortable.

He ducked his head into the fireplace and made sure the flue was open. Then he reached for the box, removed a match, struck it, and lit the fire. The flames licked up the newspaper and immediately he felt better: there was something reassuring about the warm glow of a fire. As it took, it threw a nice yellow light into the parlor, reflecting off the framed embroidery, the glass and porcelain knickknacks. Rheinbeck went and turned off the propane lantern. Might as well conserve its last few minutes of light.

Rheinbeck felt a little sorry for the old lady. It was tough having to lock her in the basement. But there was a major tornado warning out, and she’d been uncooperative, to say the least. He settled back in the rocker. It couldn’t be easy for an old woman, having a bunch of strangers with guns and dogs descending on your property in the middle of the night, in a terrible storm. It would be a shock for anybody, especially a shut-in like old Miss Kraus.

He leaned back in the rocker, enjoying the warmth of the flickering firelight. He was reminded of the Sunday afternoons he and the wife occasionally spent visiting his mother. In the winter, she’d make a pot of tea and serve it by a fire just like this one. And with the tea would always come cookies: she had an old family recipe for ginger snaps she kept promising to give his wife, but somehow never did.

It occurred to him that the old lady had been down in the cellar for almost three hours without any kind of nourishment. Now that she’d calmed down, he should bring her something. Nobody could accuse him later of having starved the old woman or allowing her to dehydrate. He could make a pot of tea. There was no power, but he could boil the tea water over the fire. In fact, he wished he’d thought of it earlier.

He roused himself from the chair, turned on his flashlight, and went into the kitchen. The place was remarkably well stocked. There were boxes of funny-looking dry goods stacked up along the walls: herbs and spices he’d never heard of, exotic vinegars, pickled vegetables in jars. On the counters were silver canisters covered with Japanese lettering, or maybe Chinese, he wasn’t sure which. Finally he found the teakettle, set near the stove between a pasta maker and some contraption like an oversized steel funnel with a crank. He rummaged in the cabinets, located some good old-fashioned tea bags. He hung the kettle on a hook above the fire, then returned to the kitchen. The refrigerator was also well stocked, and it was the work of a few minutes to arrange a little tray with cream and sugar, tea cakes, jam, marmalade, and bread. A lace doily and linen napkin with spoon and knife completed the refreshment. Soon the tea was ready, and he put the kettle on the tray and started down the stairs.

He paused at the storm door and, balancing the tea tray on one hand, tapped lightly. He heard a stir within.

“Miss Kraus?”

No sound.

“I have some tea and cakes here for you. It’ll do you good.”

He heard another rustle, and then her voice came through the door. “Just a minute, please. I need to arrange my hair.”

He waited, relieved by how calm she sounded. It was amazing, the propriety of the older generation. A minute passed, and then the old lady spoke again. “I’m ready for you now,” came the prim voice.

Smiling, he slipped the big iron key out of his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and eased open the door.

Seventy-Two

 

Sheriff Hazen could feel the sweat running off his hands and down the dimpled stock of his riot gun. He’d heard a welter of distant noises over the last ten minutes: gunshots, screams, cries—it sounded like a major confrontation. They’d seemed to come from one general direction, and Hazen was heading toward it as quickly as he could. Others might have run like rabbits, but he was personally determined to bring the guy out.

In the sandy floor he could now make out footprints: the bare ones he’d seen before.

He straightened. The bare feet of the killer.

He realized he’d been wrong about McFelty. The glance he’d had of the killer, brief as it was, had assured him of that. And maybe he was even wrong about Lavender’s connection. But he was right about the most important thing: the killer was holed up in the cave. This was his base of operations. Hazen had made the connection and he was determined to follow through and bring the son of a bitch out.

Hazen followed the footprints in the sand. Who could he be? A question to be answered later. Find the guy, get him out. It was as simple as that. Once they had him, all else would become clear: whether he was connected to Lavender; the experimental field; whatever. All would become clear.

He turned a sharp corner, following the footprints. The walls and roof suddenly pulled back, stretching away into vastness, their outlines dim in the infrared beam of his light. The ground was littered with huge, glittering crystals. Even with the monochromatic goggles, Hazen could tell they were all different colors. The cave was gigantic, a lot bigger and more spectacular than the miserable three-room tourist trap that Kraus had opened up. With the right management, it could be turned into a major tourist site. And the Indian burials he’d seen—they’d draw archeologists and maybe even a museum. Even if Medicine Creek didn’t get the experimental field, this cave was big enough to attract people from all over. It occurred to him, distantly, that the town was saved. This was better than Carlsbad Caverns. All this time the town had been sitting on a goldmine and they never knew it.

Hazen set the musings aside. He could dream about the future once this creepy bastard was behind bars. One thing at a time.

Ahead yawned a hole in the rock floor, from which came the sound of rushing water. He stepped cautiously around it and continued on, following the prints in the sand.

They were clear. And they looked fresh.

He sensed he was drawing closer to his quarry. The tunnel narrowed, then widened again. Hazen was noticing more and more signs of habitation: strange designs scratched into the walls with a sharp rock; moldering Indian fetishes arranged with care inside niches and atop limestone pillars. He tightened his grip on the shotgun and moved on. The freak, whoever he was, had been down here a long time.

Ahead, the tunnel widened into another cavern. Hazen turned the corner cautiously, then stopped dead, staring.

The cavern was a riot of ornamentation. Countless odd figures of twine and bone had been lashed together, and were hanging by strings from a thousand stalactites. Mummified cave creatures had been set together in little dioramas. Human bones and skulls of all shapes and sizes could be seen: some lined up along the rock walls; others laid along the floor in intricate, bizarre patterns; still others piled in rough heaps as if awaiting use. Ancient lanterns, tin cans, rusted turn-of-the-century gadgets, Indian artifacts, and detritus of all sorts lay along makeshift shelves. It looked like the den of some madman. Which, in fact, was exactly what it was.

Hazen turned slowly, aiming his infrared beam at the spectacle. This was weird; seriously weird. He swallowed, licked his lips, and took a step backward. Maybe it was a mistake, coming blundering in here like a single-handed posse. Maybe he wasbeing too hasty. The exit to the cave couldn’t be that far away. He could return to the surface, get reinforcements, get help . . .

And it was then that his eye fell on the far wall of the cave. The rocky floor was particularly uneven here, sloping down into deeper darkness.

Someone was lying, motionless, on the floor.

Raising the barrel of his shotgun, Hazen moved forward. There was a rough table of stone nearby, littered with moldy objects. Nearby were some empty burlap bags. And beyond, sprawled across the floor, was the figure, maybe asleep.

Shotgun ready, he approached the stone table with the utmost care. Now that he was closer, he realized that the objects on the table weren’t covered in mold after all. Instead, they appeared to be dozens of little knots of black hair: dark tufts of whiskers; curly locks, bits of scalp still attached; kinky clumps of hair and God only knew what else besides. The image of Gasparilla’s scalped and stripped head came to mind. He pushed it away, focusing his attention back on the figure, which on closer inspection didn’t look asleep after all. It looked dead.

He crept forward, tension abruptly knotting as he realized the body was gutted. Where the belly should be, there was a hollow cavity.

Oh, my God. Another victim.

He approached, hands slippery on the butt stock, stiff-legged with horror. The body had been arranged, its clothes mostly torn away, only a few ragged pieces left, its face covered with dried blood. It was gangly, not much more than a kid.

His arm shaking almost beyond his ability to control it, Hazen stopped and, taking his handkerchief, wiped the blood and dirt off the face.

Then he froze, handkerchief on the cold skin, a storm of revulsion and overwhelming loss erupting within him. It was Tad Franklin.

He staggered, felt himself sway.

Tad. . .

And then everything burst out of him at once, and with a howl of grief and fury he began turning, around and around and around, pumping the shotgun in every direction, while he raged at the darkness, the fiery blasts punctuated again and again by the sound of the shattering stalactites that fell like showers of crystal rain.

Seventy-Three

 

“What was that?” Weeks asked, screwing up his face, blinking rapidly against the dark.

“Somebody firing a twelve-gauge.” Pendergast remained still, listening. Then he glanced at Weeks’s gun. “Have you been trained in the proper use of that weapon, Officer?”

“Of course,” Weeks sniffed. “I got a Distinguished Shooting in my unit at Dodge Academy.” As it happened, there had been only three cadets in the K-9 unit at the time, but Pendergast didn’t have to be told everything.

“Then chamber a round and get ready. Stay on my right at all times and pace me exactly.”

Weeks rubbed the back of his neck; humidity always gave him a rash. “It’s my informed opinion that we should get some backup before proceeding further.”

Pendergast spoke without bothering to look over his shoulder. “Officer Weeks,” he said, “we’ve heard the crying of the killer’s intended victim. We’ve just heard shooting. Is it really your informedopinion we have the time to wait for backup?”

The question lingered briefly in the chill air. Weeks felt himself flushing. And then another faint cry—high, thin, clearly female—echoed faintly through the caverns. In a flash Pendergast was off again, moving down the tunnel. Weeks scrambled to follow, fumbling with his shotgun.

The crying seemed to rise and fall as they moved on, becoming fainter from time to time before growing louder again. They had entered a section of the cave that was drier and more spacious. The level floor was partially covered by large patches of sand, riddled with bare footprints.

“Do you know who the killer is?” Weeks asked, unable to completely hide his querulous tone.

“A man. But a man in form only.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Weeks didn’t like the way the FBI agent always seemed to speak in riddles.

Pendergast bent briefly to examine the footprints. “All you need to know is this: identifyyour target. If it is the killer—and you will know it, I can assure you– then shoot to kill.Do not trouble yourself with any niceties beyond that.”

“You don’t have to be nasty.” Weeks fell silent when he saw the look that Pendergast darted at him.

A man in form only.The image of that, that thing—it hadn’t looked much like a man to him—raising one of the thrashing dogs and tearing off its limbs came unbidden into Weeks’s mind. He shivered. But Pendergast paid no attention, moving ahead with great swiftness, gun in his hand, only pausing infrequently to listen. The sounds seemed to have died away completely.

After a few minutes, Pendergast stopped to consult the map. Then, under his guidance, they retraced their steps. The sounds returned briefly, then faded away once again. Finally, Pendergast dropped to his knees and began examining the tracks, moving back and forth for what seemed an interminable length of time, peering closely, his nose sometimes mere inches from the sand. Weeks watched him, growing more and more restless.

“Below,” Pendergast said.

Pendergast squeezed through a crack along the edge of one wall, then dropped into a narrow space that descended steeply. Weeks followed. They inched along for a while, arriving shortly at a veritable ants’ nest of natural boreholes in the cave wall, some with frozen rivers of flowstone erupting from their mouths. Pendergast played his light across the honeycombed face for a moment, selected one of the holes, and then—to Weeks’s consternation—crawled into it. The opening was dank and wet-looking, and Weeks considered protesting, but decided against it as Pendergast’s light abruptly vanished. Scrambling after Pendergast down the sharply descending passage, Weeks half jumped, half tumbled into a tunnel so heavily used that a trail had been worn in the soft limestone of its bed.

He clambered to his feet, brushing the mud from his clothes and checking his shotgun. “How long has the killer been living down here?” he asked, staring at the track in disbelief.

“Fifty-one years this September,” said Pendergast. Already, he was moving again, following the trail down the narrow corridor.

“So you knowwho it is?”

“Yes.”

“And just how the heck did you figure thatout?”

“Officer Weeks, shall we save the colloquy for later?”

Pendergast flew down the passageway. The crying had stopped, but now the FBI agent seemed sure of the way . . .

And then, quite suddenly, they came to a standstill. Ahead, a huge curtain of crystallized gypsum flowed from a rend in the ceiling, completely blocking the passageway. Pendergast shone his light onto the floor of the passage, and Weeks noticed that the heavy track had disappeared. “No time,” Pendergast murmured to himself, angling his light back down the tunnel, up over the walls and ceiling. “No time.”

Then he took a few steps back from the curtain of gypsum. He seemed to be counting under his breath. Weeks frowned: maybe he’d been right the first time and Pendergast wasn’t such a good choice to be tagging along with, after all.

Then the agent paused, moved his head close to the wall, and called out, “Miss Swanson?”

To Weeks’s surprise, there was a faint gasp, a sob, and then a muffled shout: “Pendergast? Agent Pendergast? Oh, God—”

“Be calm. We’re coming to get you. Is hearound?”

“No. He left . . . I don’t know how long ago. Hours.”

Pendergast turned to Weeks. “Now’s your chance to be useful.” He moved back to the curtain of gypsum, pointed. “Direct a shotgun blast at this spot, please.”

“Won’t he hear?” said Weeks.

“He’s already close. Follow my orders, Officer.”

Pendergast spoke with such command that Weeks jumped. “Yes, sir!” He crouched, aimed, and pulled both triggers.

The blast was deafening in the enclosed space. Pendergast’s light exposed a pall of glittering gypsum dust and, beyond, a great hole in the diaphanous stone. For a moment, nothing further happened. And then the curtain broke apart with a great crack, dropping to the floor and sending glittering crystal shards skidding everywhere. Beyond was another passageway, and beside it the narrow dark mouth of a pit. Pendergast rushed to the edge and shone his light within. Weeks came up behind and peered cautiously over his shoulder.

There, at the bottom, he saw a filthy girl with purple hair, staring up with a muddy, blood-smeared, terrified face.

Pendergast turned to look at him. “You’re the dog-handler. You must have a spare leash in your pack.”

“Yes—”

He found himself, in one swift movement, relieved of his pack. Pendergast reached inside and pulled out the spare, a length of chain with a leather strap. Then he fixed the chain end around the base of a limestone column and threw the other end into the pit.

From below came the clank of the chain, the sobbing of the girl.

Weeks peered over again. “It doesn’t reach,” he said.

Pendergast ignored this. “Cover us. If hecomes, shoot to kill.”

“Now, wait just a minute—”

But Pendergast had already disappeared over the edge. Weeks hovered at the top, one eye on the passageway and the other on the pit. The FBI agent clambered down the chain with remarkable agility, and when he reached the end he hung from it, free arm down, offering the girl his hand. She reached for it, swiped, missed.

“Stand aside, Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said to the girl. “Weeks, nudge some of those boulders into the pit. Try not to brain one of us. And keep a careful eye on that tunnel.”

With his foot, Weeks pushed half a dozen large rocks over the lip of the pit. Then he watched as the girl, who understood immediately, stacked them against the wall and clambered to the top. Now Pendergast was able to grab her hand. He hoisted her upward, planted his free arm beneath her shoulders, brought the hand back to the chain, and slowly climbed up the stone face. Pendergast looked scrawny enough, but the strength it took to climb up that chain while carrying another person was remarkable.