Текст книги "Reliquary"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

= 48 =

THE ENTRANCE TO the Whine Cellar—one of a new breed of swank basement clubs that had begun sprouting up around Manhattan over the last year—was little more than a narrow Art Deco doorway, placed like an afterthought in the lower left corner of the Hampshire House facade. From his vantage point beside the door, Smithback could make out a sea of heads, stretching east and west down the avenue street, punctuated by the ancient gingko trees that lined the entrance to Central Park. Many people were bowed in silent reverence. Others—young men in rolled-up white cotton shirts mostly, with their ties tugged down—were drinking beer out of paper sacks and high-fiving each other. In the second row, he noticed a girl holding up a poster reading PAMELA, WE WILL NEVER FORGET. A tear rolled slowly down one cheek. Smithback couldn’t help but notice that in her other hand, the girl held a copy of his recent article. While a hush had fallen over the closest rows, in the distance Smithback could hear the shouts and yells of marchers, mingling with the even more distant crackle of bullhorns, wail of sirens, and honking of car horns.

Beside him, Mrs. Wisher was now placing a candle beside the large portrait of her daughter. Her hand was steady, but the flame flickered wildly in the cool night breeze. The silence deepened as she knelt in private prayer. Then she stood and moved toward a tall bank of flowers, allowing a series of friends to move forward in turn and place their own candles next to hers. A minute went by, then another. Mrs. Wisher took a final look at the photograph, now encircled by a bracelet of candles. For a moment she seemed to stagger, and Smithback quickly caught her arm. She looked at him, blinking in surprise, as if she had suddenly forgotten her purpose. Then her eyes lost their faraway look; her grip grew briefly firm, almost painful; and easing off his arm, she turned to face the crowd.

“I want to express my sorrow,” she said clearly, “to all mothers who have lost children to crime, to murder, to the sickness that has gripped this city and this country. That is all.”

A number of television cameras had managed to squeeze toward the front of the crowd, but Mrs. Wisher simply raised her head defiantly. “To Central Park West!” she cried. “And the Great Lawn!”

Smithback stayed close to her as the crowd surged westward, propelled as if by its own internal engine. Despite all the drinking by some of the younger marchers, everything seemed under control. It was almost as if the crowd was conscious of participating in an unforgettable event. They passed Seventh Avenue: an unbroken string of red brake lights, motionless, receding almost to the limits of vision. The sound of police whistles and horns was now one long continuous wail, a steady background noise that came from all directions. Smithback dropped back a moment to consult the Posttimetable, treading on the handmade shoes of the Viscount Adair as he did so. Almost nine-thirty. Right on schedule. Three more stops, all along Central Park West. Then they’d turn into the Park for the final midnight vigil.

As they made the grand sweep around Columbus Circle, Smithback glanced down Broadway, a wide gash of gray between the unbroken rows of buildings. The police had moved more quickly here, and he could see that the road was barricaded and deserted as far south as Times Square, looking strangely vacant, the pavement shining black beneath countless street lamps. A few cops and squad cars were manning the far end; the rest of the police force was probably still mobilizing, scrambling to find ways to control traffic and keep the march from growing even larger. Maybe that’s why more of them weren’t on the scene yet. He shook his head, amazed at how this one diminutive woman had brought all of Midtown to a virtual standstill. There was no way they could ignore her after this. And no way they could ignore his articles, for that matter. Already, he’d mapped everything out. First, an in-depth report of the event, written literally at the right hand of Mrs. Wisher, but naturally with his own special slant. Then a series of profiles, interviews, and puff pieces, leading up to his book. Figure half a million bucks in royalties for domestic hardcover sales, perhaps twice that for the paperback, and with foreign rights bringing in at least—

His calculations were interrupted by a strange rumbling noise. It stopped, then came again, so deep it seemed more vibration than sound. The noise level around him dropped for a moment: apparently, others had heard it, too. Suddenly, two blocks down the long empty length of Broadway, Smithback saw a manhole cover lift from the asphalt and fall back onto the street. A cloud of what appeared to be steam drifted skyward; then an impossibly dirty man clambered up, sneezing and coughing in the glare of the streetlight, filthy rags of clothes fluttering loosely around his limbs. For a moment, Smithback thought it was Tail Gunner, the haunted-looking man that had taken him to Mephisto. Then another figure emerged from the manhole, blood flowing freely from a cut on his temple; another followed him, then another.

There was an audible intake of breath at Smithback’s side. He turned and saw that Mrs. Wisher had faltered, staring in the direction of the wild-looking men. He quickly drew alongside her.

“What is this?” she said, almost in a whisper.

Suddenly, another manhole cover popped free closer to the march, and a series of gaunt figures clambered out, disoriented and coughing. Smithback stared in disbelief at the bedraggled group, unable to tell age or even sex beneath the matted hair and crusted dirt. Some held pipes or ragged pieces of rebar; others carried bats and broken police batons. One was wearing what looked like a brand-new police cap. The crowd of marchers nearest Broadway had stopped and were staring at the spectacle. Smithback could hear a low undercurrent of sound: worried muttering from the older, elegantly dressed people, scoffs and hoots of derision from the young white-collar turks and desk jockeys. A cloud of green mist sighed out of the IRT station beneath the Circle, and more homeless emerged, scurrying up the steps. As additional bodies clambered out of manholes and the subway, a ragged army began to form, looks of blinking bewilderment quickly turning to hostility.

One of the ragged men stepped forward, glaring at the front rank of marchers. Then he opened his mouth in an inarticulate roar of frustration and rage, a long piece of rebar held over his head like a staff.

A great cry arose from the throats of the homeless, who raised their hands in answer. Smithback could see that every hand held something—rocks, chunks of cement, pieces of iron. Many had cuts and bruises. It looked like they were preparing for a battle—or had just come from one.

What the hell is this?Smithback thought. Where have all these guys come from?For a moment he wondered if it was some kind of organized mass-scale robbery. Then he remembered what Mephisto had told him as he’d crouched down there in the dark: we will find other ways to make our voices heard. Not now,he thought. This is the worst possible time.

A wisp of smoke drifted closer, and several of the nearest marchers began to choke and gasp. In an instant, Smithback’s eyes began to sting painfully, and he realized that what he’d thought was steam was actually tear gas. Farther down the empty stretch of Broadway, Smithback saw what looked like a small group of policemen—their blue uniforms torn and grimy—stumble up a subway staircase, then stagger in the direction of the distant squad cars. Shit, something big’s happened down there,he thought.

“Where’s Mephisto?” one of the homeless yelled out.

Another voice rose up. “I heard he was paddied!”

The mob grew increasingly agitated. “Goddamn cops!” someone shouted. “I bet they beat his ass!”

“What are these scumbags doing, anyway?” Smithback heard a young voice behind him ask.

“Don’t know,” came an answer. “Too late at night to cash a welfare check.” There was scattered laughter and hooting.

“Mephisto!” The chant began to rise among the ragged crowd before them. “Where’s Mephisto?”

“The mothers probably murdered him!”

There was a sudden commotion among the Wisher marchers on the side of the street nearest the Park, and Smithback turned to see a large subway grating being forced open, and more homeless boiling up from below.

“Murdered!” one of the ragged army was screaming. “The bastards murdered him!”

The man who had stepped to the front pumped his rebar. “They won’t get away with it! Not this time, they won’t!”

He held up his arms. “ The mothers gassed us!” he cried.

The tattered mob screamed wildly in response.

“They destroyed our homes!”

Another roar came from the mob.

“ Now we’ll destroy theirs!” He flung the piece of rebar at the glass facade of a nearby bank branch. There was a splintering crash as it burst through the window and fell into the lobby. An alarm began to whine, quickly drowned out in the ocean of noise.

“Hey!” somebody beside Smithback yelled out. “Did you see what that asshole did?”

The homeless mob, screaming, poured a rain of missiles toward the buildings lining Broadway. Smithback, glancing up and down the avenue, watched as more and more homeless persons rose from manholes, vents, and subway exits, filling Broadway and Central Park West with their incoherent rage. Over their cries, he could make out the faint, insistent blatting of emergency vehicles. The dark pavement glittered brightly with countless shards of broken glass.

He jumped in surprise as he heard Mrs. Wisher’s amplified voice ring out. She had taken the microphone and turned to address the marchers. “Do you see this?” she cried, her voice echoing off the tall facades and rolling into the dark, silent Park beyond. “These people are intent on destroying the very thing we’re here to preserve!”

Angry cries began to arise from around her. Smithback looked around. He could see large groups of older marchers—Mrs. Wisher’s original followers—talking amongst themselves, pointing back toward Fifth Avenue or Central Park West, moving hurriedly away from the approaching confrontation. Others—the younger, brusquer element—were shouting angrily, moving toward the front.

The television cameras were milling around, some focused on Mrs. Wisher, others on the homeless mob now moving up the street, scooping up fresh projectiles from trash cans and Dumpsters, shouting their anger and defiance.

Mrs. Wisher looked across the sea of marchers, stretching out her hands briefly, then drawing them together as if to rally the group behind her banner. “Look at this rabble! Are we going to let this happen, tonight, of all nights?” She gazed across the crowd, half questioningly, half imploringly, as a tense silence gathered. The front lines of homeless paused in their rampage, startled by the booming, omnipresent sound of her voice, echoing from a dozen loudspeakers.

“No way!” slurred a young voice.

With mingled awe and dread, Smithback watched as, very slowly, Mrs. Wisher raised one arm above her head. Then, with commanding deliberation, she brought it down, pointing a manicured finger directly at the swelling lines of homeless. “These are the people that would destroy our city!” Though her voice was steady, Smithback sensed a ragged edge of hysteria.

“Look at these bums!” screamed a young man, pushing through the front rank of marchers. A noisy group began to form a knot behind him, ten feet from the now-silent ranks of the homeless. “Get a job, asshole!” he shouted at the leader.

The ranks of mole people fell into a deathly, ominous silence.

“You think I work my ass off and pay taxes just to give you a free ride?” he screeched.

An angry murmur swept through the crowd of homeless.

“Why don’t you do something for your country, instead of just living off it?” the man screamed, taking a step toward the leader and spitting on the ground. “Homeless piece of shit.”

A roar of approval rose from the marchers.

A homeless man stepped forward, waving the ruined stump of what had been his left arm. “Look what I did for my country!” he shrieked, voice breaking. “I gave everything.” The stump flapped back and forth and he turned toward the young man, face distorted with rage. “Chu Lai, ever heard of it?” The mole people pressed forward, an angry buzz rising fast.

Smithback glanced at Mrs. Wisher. Her face was still set in a hard, cold mask, as she stared at the homeless. He realized, with growing disbelief, that she really believed these people were the enemy.

“Kiss my ass, welfare bloodsucker!” a drunken voice yelled.

“Go mug a liberal!” shouted a beefy young man, to a burst of raucous laughter.

“They killed my brother!” one of the moles, a tall, skinny man, said angrily. “Fragged for his country, Phon Mak Hill, August 2, 1969.” He stepped forward, raising his middle finger in a violent gesture at the beefy man. “You can haveyour damn country, asswipe.”

“Too bad they didn’t finish the job and blow yourass off, too!” the drunken man yelled back. “One less scumbag roaming the streets!”

A bottle whipped out of the seething crowd of homeless and struck the young man solidly on the head. He staggered backward, legs crumpling, as he raised his hands toward the blood streaming from his forehead.

It was as if the rally suddenly exploded. With an inarticulate roar, the young men surged toward the homeless. Smithback looked around wildly. The older marchers had disappeared, leaving behind a wild and drunken element. He felt himself engulfed as the younger marchers rushed forward with angry yells, moving directly toward the line of homeless. Spun around and temporarily disoriented, he looked about in panic for Mrs. Wisher and her entourage, but they too had vanished.

Struggling, he was borne along on the tide. Over the shouting of the mob, he could now hear the sickening sound of wood hitting bone and fists smacking flesh. Cries of pain and rage began to mix with the yells. There was a sudden heavy blow across his shoulders and he dropped to his knees, instinctively shielding his head. Out of the corner of one eye he saw his recorder skidding across the pavement, kicked aside, and then crushed by running feet. He tried to rise, but then ducked down again as a chunk of concrete came hurtling in his direction. It was astonishing how quickly chaos engulfed the darkened streets.

Who or what had forced the homeless to the surface in such huge groups was anyone’s guess; Smithback only knew that, suddenly, each side saw the other as the incarnation of evil. Mob mentality had taken over.

He rose to his knees and looked about wildly, staggering as he was jostled and shoved from countless directions. The march had disintegrated. However, his story was still salvageable; perhaps more than just salvageable, if this riot was as big as he thought it was. But he needed to get away from the mob, gain some high ground where he could get perspective on the situation. Quickly, he looked north, toward the Park. Over the sea of raised fists and sticks he could see the bronze statue of Shakespeare, gazing down placidly on the chaos. Keeping low, he began pushing his way toward it. A wide-eyed homeless person bore down on him, screaming and raising an empty beer bottle threateningly. Instinctively he lashed out with his fist and the figure dropped, clutching its stomach. With surprise, Smithback saw that it was a woman. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled as he scuttled away.

Glass and debris crunched beneath his feet as he made his way across Central Park South. He shoved a drunk aside, pushed past a group of screaming young men in expensive but torn suits, and gained the far sidewalk.

Here, on the fringes, it was quieter. Avoiding the pigeon lime, he clambered onto the base of the statue and grabbed the lower fold of Shakespeare’s garment. Then he hoisted himself up the arm, onto the open bronze book, and atop the Bard’s wide shoulders.

It was an awe-inspiring sight. The melee had spread several blocks down Broadway and Central Park South. More homeless were still streaming up from Columbus Circle subway station, and from gratings and vent shafts along the edge of the Park. He hadn’t known there were that many homeless people in the entire world, or that many drunken young yuppies, for that matter. He could now see the older marchers, the main guard of Take Back Our City, streaming in well-ordered ranks toward Amsterdam Avenue, moving as far from the melee as possible, desperately trying to flag down cabs. Around him, knots of brawling people were coalescing and dissolving. He stared in horrified fascination at the flying missiles, the fistfights, and stick battles. There were a number of people down now—unconscious or perhaps worse. Blood was mingling with the glass, concrete, and debris littering the street. At the same time, much of the riot consisted of screaming, shoving, and posturing groups of people—a lot of bark but no bite. Squads of police were now at last making inroads into the crowd, but there were not enough of them, and already the riot was moving into the Park where it would be much harder to control. Where are all the cops?Smithback thought again.

Despite his horror and revulsion, a certain secret part of Smithback felt a surging elation: what a story this was going to be. His eyes strained against the darkness, trying to imprint the images on his brain, already writing the lead in his head. The homeless mob now seemed to be gaining the upper hand, screaming in righteous anger, pushing the throngs of marchers back into the southern fringes of the Park. Though many of the moles were no doubt weakened by hand-to-mouth lives, they obviously knew a lot more about street fighting than their opponents. A number of television cameras had been smashed by the mob, and the remaining crews were hanging back in a protective phalanx, spotlights glaring out of the darkness. Others hung over the rooftops of nearby buildings with long lenses, bathing the rioters in eerie white light.

A patch of blue nearby caught his attention. He glanced down to see a tight group of policemen battling their way through the crowd, batons flashing. At the center of the group was a scared-looking civilian with a bushy moustache and a fat, sweaty guy Smithback recognized as Captain Waxie.

Smithback watched, intrigued, as the group forced its way past the rioters. Something was strange here. Then he realized what it was: these cops were doing nothing to stop the fighting or control the crowd. Instead, they seemed to be protecting the two men in the middle, Waxie and the other guy. As he watched, the knot of policemen gained the curb and jogged through a stone gate into the Park. They were obviously on a mission of some sort or other: they were heading someplace special in a hurry.

But what mission, Smithback thought, could be more important than stopping this riot?

He remained for a few moments, poised stiffly on Shakespeare’s shoulders, in an agony of indecision. Then, very quickly, he slipped off the statue, vaulted the low stone wall, and ran after the group into the enfolding darkness of Central Park.

= 49 =

D’AGOSTA REMOVED the unlit cigar from his mouth, picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, and examined the sodden end with distaste. Margo watched as he patted his pockets for a match, then, finding none, caught her eye and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. She shook her head no. D’Agosta turned toward Horlocker, began to open his mouth, then obviously thought better of it. The Chief had a portable radio plastered to one ear, and he didn’t look happy.

“Mizner?” he was shouting. “Mizner! You copy?”

There was a faint, lengthy squawking that Margo assumed must be Mizner.

“Just subdue and arrest the—” Horlocker began.

More faint squawking.

“Five hundred? From underground? Look, Mizner, don’t give me this shit. Why aren’t they on the buses?”

Horlocker stopped again to listen. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Pendergast sitting on the edge of a table, leaning against a mobile radio unit, seemingly engrossed in an issue of the Policeman’ s Gazette.

“Riot control, tear gas, I don’t give a rat’s ass howyou do it… marchers? What do you mean, they’re fighting with the marchers?” He lowered the phone, looked at it as if in disbelief, then raised it to his other ear. “No, for Chrissakes, don’t use gas anywhere near the marchers. Look, we got most of the Twentieth and Twenty-second underground, the Thirty-first is manning the checkpoints, Uptown is laid wide open as a… no, forget it, tell Perillo I want a wildfire meeting with all the deputy chiefs in five minutes. Bring in staff from the outer boroughs, off duty, meter cops, whatever. We need more manpower applied to that spot, you hear me?”

He punched the phone angrily and grabbed at another on the desk in front of him. “Curtis, get the Governor’s office on the phone. The evac went south, and some of the underground homeless we were clearing from the area around the Park are rioting. They’ve run straight into that big march on Central Park South. We’ll have to call in the Guard. Then contact Masters, we’re going to need a Tactical helicopter, just in case. Have him get the assault vehicles from the Lexington Avenue armory. No, forget that, they may not be able to make it through. Contact the Park substation instead. I’ll call the Mayor myself.”

He hung up the phone, more slowly this time. A single bead of sweat was making its slow traverse down a forehead that had gone from red to gray in a matter of moments. Horlocker looked around the command center, seemingly blind to the scurrying cops, the transmitters crackling on countless bands. To Margo, he looked like a man whose entire world had suddenly imploded.

Pendergast carefully folded the Gazetteand placed it on the table beside him. Then he leaned forward, smoothing his pale blond hair with the fingers of his right hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, almost casually.

Uh-oh,Margo thought.

Pendergast glided forward until he stood directly in front of the Chief. “I’ve been thinking that this situation is simply too dangerous to leave in the hands of one man.”

Horlocker closed his eyes for a minute. Then, as if making a tremendous effort, he raised them to Pendergast’s placid face.

“Just what the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“We’re relying on Squire Waxie to manually shut the Reservoir valves and stop the drainage process.”

“So?”

Pendergast put a finger to his lip, as if he was about to whisper a secret. “Not to be indelicate about this, but Captain Waxie has not proven himself to be—well, the most reliable of errand boys. If he fails, the catastrophe will be complete. The Mbwun lilies will be shunted through the Astor Tunnels and out to the open sea. Once exposed to salinity, the reovirus will be unleashed. It could alter the ecology of the oceans significantly.”

“More than that,” Margo heard herself blurt. “It could insert itself into the food chain, and from there…” She fell silent.

“I’ve heard this story before,” Horlocker said. “It doesn’t get any better the second time around. What’s your point?”

“What we in the Bureau call a redundant solution,” Pendergast said.

Horlocker opened his mouth to speak just as a uniformed officer signaled from a comm desk. “Captain Waxie for you, sir. I’ll patch him through on the open line.”

Horlocker picked up the phone again. “Waxie, what’s your status?” He stopped to listen. “Speak up, I can’t hear you. The what? What do you mean, you’re not sure? Well, take care of it, goddammit! Look, put Duffy on. Waxie, you hear me? You’re breaking up. Waxie? Waxie!”

He slammed the phone into its cradle with a shattering crash. “Get Waxie back on the horn!” he yelled.

“May I continue?” Pendergast asked. “If what I just heard is any indication, time is short. So I’ll be brief. If Waxie fails and the Reservoir is drained, we must have a backup plan in place to prevent the plants from escaping into the Hudson.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” D’Agosta asked. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. The Reservoir is scheduled to dump in just over two hours.”

“Can we just stop the plants from escaping somehow?” Margo asked. “Place filters over the exit pipes, or something?”

“An interesting thought, Dr. Green,” Pendergast said, glancing toward her with his pale eyes. He paused briefly. “I’d imagine that 5-micron filters would be sufficient. But where would we find them manufactured to the proper dimensions? And what about the tolerances required to withstand the tremendous water pressure? And how could we be certain we had located every exit?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid the only solution that time allows is to seal the exits from the Astor Tunnels with high explosive. I’ve studied the maps. A dozen charges of C-4, accurately placed, should be sufficient.”

Horlocker swiveled himself toward Pendergast. “You’re crazy,” he said matter-of-factly.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to the center, and Margo looked over to see a group of policemen half running, half stumbling in from the concourse beyond. Their uniforms were disheveled and muddy, and one of the officers had a nasty cut on his forehead. In their midst, struggling wildly, was an incredibly dirty man wearing a ragged corduroy suit. His long gray hair was matted and streaked with dirt and blood. A large turquoise, necklace hung from his neck, and a heavily stained beard hung down to his handcuffed wrists.

“We got the ringleader!” one of the cops panted as they tugged the struggling man toward the Chief.

D’Agosta stared incredulously. “It’s Mephisto!” he cried.

“Oh?” Horlocker said sarcastically. “A friend of yours?”

“Merely a social acquaintance,” Pendergast replied.

Margo watched as the man named Mephisto stared from D’Agosta to Pendergast. Suddenly, the piercing eyes flooded with recognition, and his face turned dark.

“You!” he hissed. “ Whitey! You were spies. Traitors! Pigs!” He struggled with a sudden, terrible strength, breaking free of his captors for a moment only to be tackled to the floor and pinned again. He grappled and strained, raising his manacled hands. “Judas!” he spat in Pendergast’s direction.

“Frigging lunatic,” Horlocker said, looking toward the group wrestling on the tiled floor.

“Hardly,” Pendergast replied. “Would you act any differently if somebody had just gassed you and driven you out of your home?”

Mephisto lunged again.

“Hold him, for Chrissakes,” Horlocker snapped, stepping out of reach. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “Now, let me see if I understand this,” he said with insulting sweetness, the parody of a father humoring a foolish son. “You want to blow up the Astor Tunnels. Do I have it right?”

“Not the tunnels so much as the exits from the tunnels,” Pendergast replied, oblivious to the sarcasm. “It is critical that we stop any water draining from the Reservoir from reaching the open ocean. But perhaps we can accomplish both ends: cleanse the Astor Tunnels of their inhabitants while preventing the reovirus from escaping. All we have to do is hold the water for forty-eight hours and let the herbicide do its work.”

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 Iknow 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.