Текст книги "Reliquary"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

= 5 =

THE METAL DOOR at the end of the gray hallway was discreetly marked FORENSIC ANTHROPOLOGY in stenciled capitals. It was the Museum’s state-of-the-art facility for analyzing human remains. Margo tried the knob and to her surprise found it locked. This was odd. She’d been here countless times, assisting in examinations of everything from Peruvian mummies to Anasazi cliff dwellers, and the door had never been locked before. She lifted her hand to knock. But the door was already being opened from the inside, and she found her rap falling onto thin air.

She stepped in, then stopped abruptly. The lab, normally brightly lit and bustling with grad students and curatorial assistants, looked dim and strange. The bulky electron microscopes, X-ray viewers, and electrophoresis apparatus sat against the walls, silent and unused. The window that normally boasted a panoramic view of Central Park was covered by a heavy curtain. A single pool of brilliant light illuminated the center of the room; at its edge, a semicircle of figures stood among the shadows.

In the center of the light lay a large specimen table. Something brown and knobby lay on it, along with a blue plastic sheet covering some other long, low object. As she stared curiously, Margo realized that the knobby object was a human skeleton, decorated with desiccated strips of sinew and flesh. There was a faint but unmistakable odor of corpse-reek.

The door closed and locked behind her. Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta, wearing what looked like the same suit she remembered from the Museum Beast murders of eighteen months before, walked back to join the group, nodding briefly at her as he passed. He seemed to have shed a few pounds since she’d last seen him. Margo noticed that his suit matched the dirty brown color of the skeleton.

Margo scanned the row of figures as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. To D’Agosta’s left was a nervous man in a lab coat, a cup of coffee gripped in his pudgy hand. Next came the tall, thin form of the Museum’s new director, Olivia Merriam. Another figure stood farther back in the shadows, too dim for Margo to make out anything but a vague outline.

The Director gave Margo a wan smile. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Green. These gentlemen”—she waved vaguely in D’Agosta’s direction—“have asked for our help.”

There was a silence. Finally, D’Agosta sighed irritably. “We can’t wait for him any longer. He lives way the hell out in Mendham, and didn’t seem too thrilled about coming in when I telephoned last night.” He looked at each person in turn. “You saw the Postthis morning, right?”

The Director looked at him with distaste. “No.”

“Let me backtrack a bit, then.” D’Agosta gestured toward the skeleton on the stainless steel table. “Meet Pamela Wisher. Daughter of Anette and the late Horace Wisher. No doubt you’ve seen her picture all over town. She disappeared around 3:00 A.M. on the morning of May 23. She spent the evening at the Whine Cellar, one of those basement clubs off Central Park South. Went to make a phone call and never came back. At least, not until yesterday, when we found her skeleton—minus the skull—in the Humboldt Kill. Apparently it was flushed out of a West Side storm drain, probably during a recent heavy rain.”

Margo looked again at the remains on the table. She had seen countless skeletons before, but none belonging to anyone she’d known, or even heard of. It was difficult to believe that this grisly assemblage of bones had once been the pretty blond woman she had been reading about barely fifteen minutes before.

“And with the remains of Pamela Wisher we also found this.” D’Agosta nodded at the thing lying beneath the blue plastic sheet. “So far, the press knows only that a second skeleton was found—thank God.” He glanced at the figure standing apart in the shadows. “I’ll let Dr. Simon Brambell; Chief Medical Examiner, do the talking.”

As the figure stepped into the light, Margo saw a slender man of about sixty-five. The skin lay tight and smooth across a devious old skull, and a pair of beady black eyes glittered at the assembled company behind ancient horn-rims. His long lean face was as devoid of expression as his head was devoid of hair.

He laid a finger across his upper lip. “If you would all take a few steps forward,” he said in a soft Dublin accent, “you might have a better view.”

There was a sound of reluctant shuffling. Dr. Brambell grasped the end of the blue sheet, paused a moment to look impassively around again, then flipped it off with a deft motion.

Beneath, Margo saw the remains of another headless corpse, as brown and decayed as the first. But as her eyes scanned the remains, she sensed there was something odd. Her breath drew in sharply as she realized what it was: The bizarre thickening of the leg bones, the odd curvatures of several of the major joint structures, was all wrong.

What the hell?she thought.

There came a sudden thump on the door.

“Christ.” D’Agosta moved toward it quickly. “At last.”

The door swung wide to reveal Whitney Cadwalader Frock, the famous evolutionary biologist, now a reluctant guest of Lieutenant D’Agosta. His wheelchair creaked as it approached the specimen table. Without looking at the assembled company, he examined the bony corpses, his eyes coming to rest on the second skeleton. After a few moments, he leaned back, a shock of white hair falling away from his wide pink forehead. He nodded at D’Agosta and the Museum Director. Then he saw Margo, and a look of surprise came over his face, changing quickly to a delighted smile.

Margo smiled and nodded in return. Although Frock had been her primary adviser during her graduate work at the Museum, she had not seen him since his retirement party. He had left the Museum to concentrate on his writing, yet there was still no sign of the promised follow-up volume to his influential work, Fractal Evolution.

The Medical Examiner, who had paid Frock’s entrance only the briefest of glances, now continued. “I invite you,” he said pleasantly, “to examine the ridging of the long bones, the bony spicules and osteophytes along the spine and at the joints. Also the twenty-degree outward rotation of the trochanters. Note that the ribs have a trapezoidal, instead of the normal prismatic, cross section. Finally, I would direct your attention to the thickening of the femurs. On the whole, a rather unbecoming fellow. Of course, these are only some of the more outstanding features. You can no doubt see the rest for yourselves.”

D’Agosta breathed out through his nose. “No doubt.”

Frock cleared his throat. “Naturally, I haven’t had a chance for a thorough examination. But I wonder if you’ve considered the possibility of DISH.”

The ME looked at Frock again, more carefully this time. “A very intelligent guess,” he said. “But quite wrong. Dr. Frock is referring to diffuse idiopathic skeletal hyperostosis, a type of severe degenerative arthritis.” He shook his head dismissively. “Nor is it osteomalacia, though if this wasn’t the twentieth century I’d say it was the most nightmarish case of scurvy ever recorded. We’ve searched the medical databases, and can find nothing that would account for this condition.”

Brambell ran his fingers lightly, almost affectionately, along the spinal column. “There is another curious anomaly shared by both skeletons, which we only noticed last night. Dr. Padelsky, would you please bring the stereozoom?”

The overweight man in the lab coat disappeared into the gloom, then returned, rolling before him a large microscope with an open stage. He positioned it over the neck bones of the deformed skeleton, peered through the eyepieces, made a few adjustments, then stepped back.

Brambell gestured with the palm of his hand. “Dr. Frock?”

Frock rolled forward and, with some difficulty, fit his face to the visor. He remained motionless for what seemed several minutes, leaning over the skeletonized cadaver. At last he rolled his wheelchair back, saying nothing.

“Dr. Green?” the ME said, turning to her. Margo stepped up to the microscope and peered in, aware of being the focus of attention.

At first, she could make nothing of the image. Then she realized that the stereozoom was focused on what appeared to be a cervical vertebra. There were several shallow, regular scores along one edge. Some foreign brownish matter clung to the bone, along with bits of cartilage, strings of muscle tissue, and a greasy bulb of adipocere.

Slowly she straightened up, feeling the old familiar fear return, unwilling to consider what those scores along the bone reminded her of.

The ME raised his eyebrows. “Your opinion, Dr. Green?”

Margo drew in her breath. “If I were to guess, I’d say they look like teeth marks.”

She and Frock exchanged glances.

She knew now—they bothknew—exactly why Frock had been called to this meeting.

Brambell waited while the others took turns staring through the microscope. Then, wordlessly, he wheeled the stereozoom over to Pamela Wisher’s skeleton, focusing this time on the pelvis. Again, Frock took up a position at the microscope, followed by Margo. No denying it this time; Margo noticed that some of the marks had punctured the bone and penetrated into the marrow spaces.

Frock blinked in the cold white light. “Lieutenant D’Agosta told me these skeletons came out of the West Side Lateral Drain.”

“That’s right,” said D’Agosta.

“Flushed out by the recent storm.”

“That’s the theory.”

“Perhaps feral dogs worried our couple while their dead bodies lay in the drain system.”

“That’s one possibility,” said Brambell. “I would estimate the pressure required to make the deepest of those pressure marks at around 1200 psi. A bit high for a dog, don’t you think?”

“Not for, say, a Rhodesian Ridgeback,” said Frock.

Brambell inclined his head. “Or the Hound of the Baskervilles, Professor?”

Frock frowned at the sarcasm. “I’m not convinced those marks are as powerful as you believe.”

“Alligator,” said D’Agosta.

All heads turned toward him.

“Alligator,” he repeated, almost defensively. “You know. They get flushed down the toilets as babies, then grow big in the sewers.” He looked around. “I read it somewhere.”

Brambell issued a chuckle as dry as dust. “Alligators, like all reptiles, have cone-shaped teeth. These marks were made by small triangular mammalian teeth, probably canines.”

“Canine, but not dog?” Frock said. “Let’s not forget the principle of Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

Brambell tilted his head in Frock’s direction. “I know that Occam’s razor is held in great esteem in yourprofession, Dr. Frock. In mine,we find the Holmesian philosophy more apt: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable,must be the truth.’ ”

“So what answer remains, Dr. Brambell?” Frock snapped.

“As of this moment, I have no explanation.”

Frock settled back in the wheelchair. “This second skeleton is interesting. Perhaps even worth the trip in from Mendham. But you forget that I am now retired.”

Margo watched him, frowning. Normally, the professor would have been more entranced by a puzzle such as this. She wondered if—perhaps in the same way as herself—Frock was reminded of the events of eighteen months before. If so, perhaps he was resisting. It was not the kind of reminiscence likely to ensure tranquil retirement.

Olivia Merriam spoke up. “Dr. Frock,” she said, “we were hoping that you would be willing to assist in the analysis of the skeleton. Because of the unusual circumstances, the Museum has agreed to put its laboratory at the disposal of the police. We’ll be happy to provide you an office on the fifth floor, with secretary, for as long as necessary.”

Frock raised his eyebrows. “Surely the City Morgue has all the latest equipment. Not to mention the luminous medical talents of Dr. Brambell here.”

“You are correct about the luminous talent, Dr. Frock,” Brambell replied. “But as for having the latest equipment, you are sadly in error. The budget shortfalls of recent years have left us rather behind the times. Besides, the Morgue is a bit public for this sort of thing. Right now, we are infested with reporters and television crews.” He paused. “And, of course, we don’t have your particular expertise at the City Morgue.”

“Thank you,” Frock said. He gestured at the second skeleton. “But how hard could it be to identify someone who in life must have looked like, ahem, the Missing Link?”

“Believe me, we’ve tried,” said D’Agosta. “Over the last twenty-four hours, we’ve checked every missing Tom, Dick, and Harry in the Instate area. Nothing. And as far as we can tell, no freak like this ever existed, let alone one who got himself lost and chewed up in the New York City sewers.”

Frock seemed not to hear the answer to his question. His head sunk slowly to his chest and he remained motionless for several minutes. Except for an impatient cluck from Dr. Brambell, the laboratory was still. At last, Frock roused himself, sighed deeply, and nodded with what to Margo seemed like weary resignation. “Very well. I can give you a week. I have other business in the city to attend to. I assume you wish Dr. Green here to assist me?”

Too late, Margo realized she hadn’t given any thought to why she had been invited to this secret gathering. But now it was clear. She knew that Frock trusted her completely. Together, they had solved the mystery of the Museum Beast killings. They must have figured,she thought, that Frock would work with me and nobody else.

“Wait a minute,” she blurted. “I can’t do that.”

All eyes turned toward her, and Margo realized she had spoken more sharply than she’d meant to. “What I mean is, I don’t think I can spare the time right now,” she stammered.

Frock looked at her, comprehension in his eyes. More than anyone else, he understood this assignment was guaranteed to stir up fearsome memories.

Director Merriam’s narrow features creased into a frown. “I’ll speak to Dr. Hawthorne,” she said. “You’ll be given whatever time necessary to assist the police.”

Margo opened her mouth to protest, then decided against it. Too bad, she thought, that her curatorial appointment at the Museum was too recent for her to refuse.

“Very good,” said Brambell, a tight smile briefly cracking his face. “I will be working alongside the two of you, of course. Before we disperse, I might just emphasize that the utmost discretion will be required. It was bad enough having to release the news that Pamela Wisher had been found dead and decapitated. If word ever gets out that our socialite was nibbled on after death… or perhaps before…” His voice trailed off, and he smoothed a hand over his bald pate.

Frock glanced up sharply. “The teeth marks are not postmortem?”

“That, Dr. Frock, is the question of the hour. Or one of them, at least. The Mayor and the Chief of Police are waiting rather impatiently for results.”

Frock made no reply, and it was clear to everybody that the meeting was at an end. The group turned to go, most of them eager to distance themselves from the gaunt brownish things that lay on the specimen tables.

As she walked past, the Museum Director turned briefly toward Margo. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” she said.

Dr. Brambell took in Frock and Margo with one last sweep of his eyes, then followed the Director out the door.

Last to leave was Lieutenant D’Agosta. In the doorway, he paused for a moment. “If you have to talk to anyone, talk to me.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then stopped, nodded, and turned away abruptly. The door closed behind him and Margo was alone: with Frock, Pamela Wisher, and the bizarrely malformed skeleton.

Frock sat up in his wheelchair. “Lock the door please, Margo,” he said, “and get the rest of the lights up.” He wheeled himself toward the specimen table. “I guess you’d better wash and put on scrubs.”

Margo glanced at the two skeletons. Then she looked toward her old professor.

“Dr. Frock?” she began. “You don’t think this could be the work of a—”

He turned suddenly, an odd expression on his ruddy face. Their eyes locked, and he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered fiercely. “Not until we’re certain.”

Margo held his gaze for a moment. Finally she nodded and turned toward the bank of light switches. What had not been said between them was much more unsettling than the two grisly skeletons.

= 6 =

IN THE SMOKY recesses of the Cat’s Paw bar, Smithback wedged himself into a narrow telephone booth. Balancing his drink in one hand and squinting at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed the number of his office, wondering how many messages would be waiting for him this time.

Smithback never doubted that he was one of the greatest journalists in New York. Probably thegreatest. A year and a half ago, he’d brought the story of the Museum Beast to the world. And not in the usual dickless, detached way: He’d been there with D’Agosta and the others, struggling in the dark on that April night. On the strength of the book which quickly followed, he’d secured this position as Postcrime correspondent. Now the Wisher thing had come along, and none too soon, either. Big stories were rarer than he could have guessed, and there were always others—like that stain-on-the-wall Bryce Harriman, crime reporter for the Times—out to scoop him. But if he played it right, this could be as big as the Mbwun story had been. Maybe bigger.

A great journalist,he mused as he listened to the phone ring, adapts himself to the options offered him.Take the Wisher story. He had been totally unprepared for the mother. She’d been impressive. Smithback found himself embarrassed and deeply moved. Fired by those unfamiliar emotions, he’d written a new article for that morning’s edition, labeling Pamela Wisher the Angel of Central Park South and painting her death in tragic colors. But the real stroke of genius had been the $100,000 reward for information leading to the murderer. The idea had come to him in the middle of writing the story; he had carried the half-written piece and his reward idea straight into the office of the Post’snew editor, Arnold Murray. The man had loved it, authorizing it on the spot without even bothering to check with the publisher.

Ginny, the pool secretary, came on the line excitedly. Twenty phone calls about the reward, all of them bogus.

“That’s it?” Smithback asked, crestfallen.

“Well, there was, like, this really weirdvisitor for you,” the secretary gushed. She was short and skinny, lived in Ronkonkoma, and had a crush on Smithback.

“Yeah?”

“He was dressed in rags and he smelled. God, I could hardly breathe.And he was, like, high or something.”

Maybe it’s a hot tip,Smithback thought excitedly. “What did he want?”

“He said he had information about the Wisher murder. He asked you to meet him in the Penn Station men’s room—”

Smithback almost dropped his drink. “The men’s room? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“That’s what he said. You think he’s a pervert?” She spoke with undisguised relish.

“Which men’s room?”

He heard papers shuffling. “I’ve got it right here. North end, lower level, just to the left of the track 12 escalator. At eight o’clock tonight.”

“What information, exactly?”

“That was all he said.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and checked his watch: seven forty-five. The men’s room in Penn Station? I’d have to be crazy or desperate, he thought, to follow up a lead like that.

Smithback had never been inside a men’s room at Penn Station before. Nobody he knew would ever go in one, either. As he opened the door into a vast, hot room, suffocating with the stench of urine and old diarrhea, he thought that, in fact, he’d rather piss his pants than use a Penn Station men’s room.

He was five minutes late. Probably the guy’s gone already,Smithback thought gratefully. Assuming he’d ever been here in the first place.He was just about to duck back outside when he heard a gravelly voice.

“William Smithback?”

“What?” Smithback looked around quickly, scanning the deserted men’s room. Then he saw two legs descend in the farthest stall. The door opened. A small, skinny man stepped out and walked up to him unsteadily, his long face grimy, his clothes dark with grease and dirt, his hair matted and knotted into alarming shapes. A beard of indescribable color descended to twin points near his belly button, which was exposed through a long ragged tear in his shirt.

“William Smithback?” the man repeated, peering at him through filmy eyes.

“Who else?”

Without another word, the man turned and moved back toward the rear of the men’s room. He stopped at the open last stall, then turned, waiting.

“You have some information for me?” Smithback asked.

“Come with me.” He gestured back toward the stall.

“No way,” said Smithback. “If you want to talk, we can talk out here, but I’m not going in there with you, pal.”

The man gestured again. “But this is the way to go.”

“Go where?”

“Down.”

Cautiously, Smithback approached the stall. The man had stepped inside and was standing behind the toilet, prying back a large piece of painted sheet metal that, Smithback now saw, covered a ragged hole in the dirty tile wall.

“In there?” Smithback asked.

The man nodded.

“Where does it go?”

“Down,” the man repeated.

“Forget it,” said Smithback. He started to back away.

The man held his gaze. “I’m supposed to bring you to Mephisto,” he said. “He has to talk to you about the murder of that girl. He knows important things.”

“Give me a break.”

The man continued to stare at him. “You can trust me,” he said simply.

Somehow, despite the filth and the drugged eyes, Smithback found himself believing the man. “What things?”

“You have to talk to Mephisto.”

“Who’s this Mephisto?”

“He’s our leader.” The man shrugged as if no other information was necessary.

“Our?”

The man nodded. “The Route 666 community.”

Despite his uncertainty, Smithback felt a tingle of excitement. An organized community underground? That would make good copy all by itself. And if this Mephisto really knew something about the Wisher murder… “Where exactly is this Route 666 community?” he asked.

“Can’t tell you. But I’ll show you the way.”

“And your name?” he asked.

“They call me Tail Gunner,” the man said, a small gleam of pride flaring in his eyes.

“Look,” said Smithback. “I’d follow you, but you can’t expect me to just crawl into a hole like this. I could get ambushed, mugged, anything.”

The man shook his head vehemently. “I’ll protect you. Everyone knows I’m Mephisto’s chief runner. You’ll be safe.”

Smithback stared at the man: rheumy eyes, running nose, dirty wizard’s beard. He had come all the way to the offices of the Post.That was a lot of trouble for a guy who looked both broke and homeless.

Then the image of Bryce Harriman’s smug face filled his mind. He imagined Bryce’s editor at the Times,asking him again how come that hack Smithback had gotten the story first.

He liked that image.

The man known as Tail Gunner held back the large piece of tin while Smithback clambered through. Once they were both inside he carefully maneuvered it back into place, propping it closed with some loose bricks.

Looking around, Smithback found himself in a long, narrow tunnel. Water and steam pipes ran overhead like thick gray veins. The ceiling was low, but not so low that a man as tall as Smithback couldn’t stand upright. Evening light filtered in through ceiling grates spaced at hundred yard intervals.

The reporter followed the stooped, low figure, moving ahead of him in the dim light. Once in a while the rumble of a nearby train would fill the dank space; Smithback could feel the sound more in his bones than his ears.

They began walking northward along what seemed to be an endless tunnel. After ten or fifteen minutes, Smithback began to feel a nagging worry. “Excuse me,” he said, “but why the long walk?”

“Mephisto keeps the nearest entrances to our community secret.”

Smithback nodded, making a wide detour around the swollen body of a dead dog. It wasn’t surprising these tunnel dwellers were a little paranoid, but this was getting ridiculous. They’d walked far enough north to be under Central Park.

Soon, the tunnel began to curve gently to the right. Smithback could make out a series of steel doors set into the thick concrete wall. Overhead a large pipe ran, water dripping from its padded covering. A sign on the padding read DANGER: CONTAINS ASBESTOS FIBERS. AVOID CREATING DUST. CANCER AND LUNG DISEASE HAZARD. Stopping and digging one hand into his rags, Tail Gunner extracted a key and placed it in the lock of the closest door.

“How’d you get that key?” Smithback asked.

“We have many skills in our community,” the man replied, pulling open the door and ushering the journalist through.

As the door shut behind Smithback, the blackness of night rushed forward to meet him. Realizing how much he’d instinctively relied on the dim light that had filtered down from the grates, Smithback had a sudden feeling of panic.

“Don’t you have a flashlight?” he stammered.

There was a scratching sound, then the flaring of a wooden match. In the flickering illumination, Smithback saw a series of cement steps leading downward as far as the matchlight penetrated.

Tail Gunner snapped his wrist and the match went out.

“Satisfied?” came the dull, monotonic voice.

“No,” Smithback replied quickly. “Light another.”

“When it is necessary.”

Smithback felt his way down the staircase, his hands spread on the cool slick walls for balance. They descended for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, another match flared, and Smithback saw that the stairs ended in an enormous railroad tunnel, its silver tracks gleaming dully in the orange light.

“Where are we now?” Smithback asked.

“Track 100,” the man said. “Two levels down.”

“Are we there yet?”

The match flickered out, and darkness descended again.

“Follow me,” came the voice. “When I say stop, you stop. Immediately.”

They ventured onto the tracks. Smithback found himself fighting down panic once again as he stumbled over the iron rails.

“Stop,” came the voice. Smithback halted as another match flared. “See that?” Tail Gunner said, pointing to a gleaming bar of metal with a bright yellow line painted next to it. “That’s a third rail. It’s electrified. Don’t step on it.”

The match died out. Smithback heard the man take a few steps in the close, humid darkness.

“Light another!” he cried.

A match flared. Smithback took a broad step over the third rail.

“Are there any more of those?” he asked, pointing to the rail.

“Yes,” the little man said. “I’ll show you.”

“Jesus,” said Smithback as the match died. “What happens if you step on one?”

“The current explodes your body, blows off your arms, legs, and head,” the disembodied voice said. There was a pause. “It’s always better not to step on it.”

A match flared again, illuminating another yellow-painted rail. Smithback stepped gingerly over it, then watched as Tail Gunner pointed to a small hole in the far wall about two feet high and four across, chiseled out of the bottom of an old archway that had been bricked up with cinder block.

“We go down here,” Tail Gunner said.

Smithback could feel a hot draft coming up from below, tinged with a foul odor that made his gorge rise. Interwoven with the stench Smithback thought he caught, for a moment, the smell of wood smoke.

“Down?” he asked in disbelief, turning his face away. “Again? What, you mean slide in there on my belly?”

But his companion was already wriggling his way through.

“No way,” Smithback called out, squatting down near the hole. “Listen, I’m not going down there. If this Mephisto wants to talk, he has to come up here.”

There was a silence, and then Tail Gunner’s voice echoed out of the gloom on the far side of the cinder block. “Mephisto never comes higher than level three.”

“He’s gonna have to make an exception, then.” Smithback tried to sound more confident than he felt. He realized that he had put himself into an impossible situation, relying totally on this bizarre, unstable man. It was pitch black again, and he had no way of finding his way back.

There was a long silence.

“You still with me?” Smithback asked.

“Wait there,” the voice demanded suddenly.

“You’re leaving? Give me some matches,” Smithback pleaded. Something poked him in the knee and he cried out in surprise. It was Tail Gunner’s grimy hand, holding something out to him through the hole.

“Is that all?” Smithback asked, counting the three matches by touch.

“All I can spare,” came the voice, faint now and moving away. There were some more words, but Smithback could not make them out.

Silence descended. Smithback leaned back against the wall, afraid to sit down, clutching the matches tightly in one hand. He cursed himself for being foolish enough to follow the man down here. No story is worth this,he thought. Could he get back with only three matches? He shut his eyes and concentrated, trying to remember every twist and turn that had brought him here. Eventually, he gave up: the three matches would barely get him across those electrified rails.

When his knees began to protest he rose from the squatting position. He stared into the lightless tunnel, eyes wide, ears straining. It was so utterly black that he began to imagine things in the dark: movement, shapes. He remained still, trying to breathe calmly, as an infinity of time passed. This was insane. If only he—

“Scriblerian!” a ghostly, incorporeal voice sounded from the hole at his feet.

“What?” Smithback yelped, spinning around.

“I am addressing William Smithback, scriblerian, am I not?” The voice was cracked and low, a sinister sing-song rising from the depths beneath him.

“Yes, yes, I’m Smithback. Bill Smithback. Who are you?” he called, unsettled at speaking to this disembodied voice out of the darkness.

“Mephisto,”came the voice, drawing the sof the name into a fierce hiss.”

“What took you so long?” Smithback replied nervously, stooping down again toward the hole in the cinder block.

“It is a long way up.”

Smithback paused a minute, contemplating how this man—now standing somewhere below his feet—had needed to travel several levels upto reach this place. “Are you coming up?” he asked.