Текст книги "Reliquary"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

= 19 =

MARGO PUSHED through the revolving door of the 27th Precinct House, made a sharp left, and trotted down the long, steep staircase to the basement. The banister had been removed from the ancient yellow wall decades before, and she had to take care not to slip on the concrete steps. Despite the thickness of the stone foundations around her, she could hear muffled popping sounds below long before she reached the bottom of the staircase.

As she yanked open the heavily soundproofed door on the landing, the muffled pops turned suddenly to roars. Wincing against the noise, she stepped forward to the duty desk. The officer recognized her and waved dismissively as she began to pull the letter of privilege and special permit from her carryall. “Take number seventeen,” he said over the blasts, passing over a dozen target sheets and a set of battered ear cups.

Margo scribbled her name and entry time in the book, then turned and walked down the gallery, putting on the ear cups as she did so. Immediately, the roaring became bearable once more. To her left, the line of police officers in their open-topped booths ran almost unbroken to the far wall of the range: reloading, clipping targets, assessing results. Early evening was a popular time. And of the dozen twenty-five-yard indoor ranges scattered across the NYPD station houses, the 27th Precinct boasted the largest and best-equipped.

Reaching booth seventeen, she removed her weapon, a box of 120-grain FMJ ammunition, and some spare clips from the carryall. Placing the ammunition on a ledge at her side, she inspected the small autoloader. The movements were as habitual now as they had been foreign a year before, when she’d first purchased the gun. Satisfied, she slapped a full clip home, pinned a standard target to the guide line, and ran it out to ten yards. Then she quickly settled into the Weaver stance, as she’d been taught: right hand on trigger, left hand gripping the right in the classic push-pull dynamic. Focusing on the front sight, she squeezed the trigger, letting her bent elbows absorb the recoil. She stopped a moment to squint at the target, then quickly emptied the rest of the ten-round clip toward it.

She went through several more clips almost mechanically, settling into the standard firing range routine: reload, reset target, fire. When the ammunition box was half empty, she switched to silhouette targets at twenty-five yards. Emptying the final clip at last, she turned away to clean her weapon and was surprised to see Lieutenant D’Agosta behind her, arms folded, watching.

“Hi,” she said, removing her ear cups and shouting over the din.

D’Agosta nodded toward her target. “Let’s see how you did,” he mouthed, and waited for her to pull the silhouette in. “Nice rosette,” he said approvingly.

Margo laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “I have you to thank for that. Just like I have you to thank for the permit.” She dumped the empty clips into her carryall, thinking about how strange it must have seemed to D’Agosta at the time: her bursting into his office three months after the conclusion of the Museum murders, asking him to arrange for a handgun permit. For protection, she’d told him. How could she have brought herself to explain the lingering fear, the sweat-drenched nightmares, the feeling of vulnerability that plagued her?

“Brad told me you were a good student,” D’Agosta said. “I figured you’d get on well, that’s why I recommended him. But as for the permit, you don’t have me to thank. Pendergast took care of it personally. Now, let’s see what kind of gun Brad set you up with.”

Margo handed it over. “It’s a baby Glock. Model 26, with a factory-modified ‘New York trigger.’ ”

D’Agosta hefted it. “Nice and light. Short sight radius, though.”

“Your friend Brad was very helpful with that. Taught me Kentucky windage, helped me set up the adjustable sight. I’ve done all my training with it. I’d probably be useless with anything else.”

“I doubt it.” D’Agosta handed the subcompact back. “With scores like those, you could probably handle just about anything.” He nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get away from this noise. I’ll walk you out.”

Margo stopped at the desk to sign out and return the ear cups, and was surprised when D’Agosta signed the log as well. “You were shooting?” she asked.

“Why not?” D’Agosta turned to her. “Even old farts like me get rusty.” They stepped out of the range and began climbing the long, steep staircase. “Actually, cases like this get everybody on edge,” he said. “A little practice seemed like a good idea. Especially after that briefing.”

Margo didn’t bother to reply. At the top of the steps, she stopped and waited for the Lieutenant to catch up. He emerged, puffing slightly, and they passed through the revolving door onto 31st Street. It was a cool evening, and traffic was light. Margo looked at her watch: almost eight. She could jog home, fix herself a light dinner, then try to catch up on her sleep.,

“I’ll bet those damn stairs have caused more coronaries than all the pastry in New York,” D’Agosta said. “Doesn’t seem to have bothered you any, though.”

Margo shrugged. “I’ve been working out.”

“So I noticed. You’re not the same person I met eighteen months ago. Not on the outside, anyway. What’s your routine?”

“Strength workout, mostly. You know, high weight, low reps.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Couple times a week?”

“I work the upper and lower muscle groups on alternating days. I try to work in some interval training, as well.”

“What are you currently benching? One twenty?”

Margo shook her head. “One thirty-five, actually. It’s nice, because for the first time I don’t have to change all those little weights on the bar. I can just use the forty-fives.”

D’Agosta nodded again. “Not bad.” They started toward Sixth Avenue. “And has it worked?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, has it worked?”

Margo frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, but even as she said the words, she understood.

“No,” she said a moment later, in a lower voice. “Not completely, anyway.”

“Don’t mean to be nosy,” D’Agosta replied, patting his pockets, absently searching for a cigar. “I’m a blunt kind of guy, just in case you didn’t know.” Finding one, he picked off the label with his fingernail and inspected the wrapper. “That shit at the Museum affected all of us, I suppose.”

They reached the avenue, and Margo hesitated a moment, looking northward. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s just hard for me to talk about.”

“I know,” D’Agosta said. “Especially now.” There was a brief silence as he lit up. “Take good care of yourself, Dr. Green.”

Margo smiled slightly. “You too. And thanks again for this.” She patted her carryall, then eased into a jog, moving northward through the traffic, aiming for the West Side and home.

= 20 =

D’AGOSTA LOOKED AT his watch: 10:00 P.M., and they still had jack shit to show for all their work. Details of beat cops had checked the shelters, redemption centers, and soup kitchens, searching fruitlessly for word of anyone who might have an excessive interest in Mbwun. Hayward, whose knowledge of the underground homeless was becoming an ever more valuable resource, had led a number of special rousting details. Unfortunately, the results had also been disappointing: the moles had melted before their sweeps, disappearing into ever darker and more obscure recesses. Besides, as Hayward explained, the sweeps could only scratch the surface of the vast tunnel networks beneath the city’s streets. At least the stream of nutcases calling in to claim the Postreward was beginning to slow to a trickle. Maybe everyone was too worried about the Timesreport and the Bitterman murder.

He looked down at his desk, still buried under the half-coordinated results of the sweeps. Then he glanced up at the precinct board for the hundredth time that evening, staring fixedly at the map as if the fierceness of his glare would force it to yield up an answer. What was the pattern? There had to be one; it was the first rule of detective work.

He didn’t give a shit what Horlocker said: his gut told him that these killings were the work of more than one murderer. And it wasn’t only his gut—there were just too many; and the MOs, while similar, weren’t similar enough: some decapitated, some with their heads crushed, others simply mutilated. Perhaps it was some kind of truly screwed-up cult. But whatever it turned out to be, Horlocker’s threatening deadlines were time-consuming distractions. What was needed here was patient, methodical, intelligent detective work.

D’Agosta laughed to himself. Christ, I’m sounding more like Pendergast all the time.

From beyond the closed door of the storage room at one side of his office, he began to make out a series of odd shuffling noises. Hayward had gone in there a few minutes earlier on her coffee break. He stared at the door for a moment while the noises continued. At last, he rose, walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped in. Hayward stood in the middle of the storage room, crouched in an animal-like stance, her left hand stuck rigidly in front of her like an arrow, her right cocked back to the side of her head. Her hands were tensed and slightly curved, bent thumbs protruding upward. As he watched, she swiveled her small form through ninety degrees of the compass, reversed the position of her arms in a silent punching motion, then turned another ninety degrees. It looked like some kind of dangerous ballet.

The movements were punctuated by sharp exhalations, not unlike the breathing she’d done during the confrontation in the tunnels. As he watched, she swiveled again, facing him this time, and brought her hands together in front of her with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Need something, Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Just an explanation of what the hell you’re doing,” he replied.

Hayward straightened up slowly to her full height, released a deep breath, then looked up at him. “It’s one of the heianseries of kata.”

“What’s that again?”

“Formal exercises of shotokankarate,” she said. Then she caught his look. “It helps keep me relaxed, in shape,” she explained. “And it ismy break, Lieutenant.”

“Then get on with it.” D’Agosta turned toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “What’s your belt?”

She looked up at him for a moment. “White,” she replied at last.

“I see.”

Hayward smiled slightly. “ Shotokanis the original Japanese school of karate. They don’t usually believe in all sorts of pastel belt colors, Lieutenant. There are six degrees of white belt, three brown, then black.”

D’Agosta nodded. “So what degree are you?” he asked curiously.

“I go for my sankyubrown belt examination next month.”

From his office beyond D’Agosta could hear the rattle of a knob. Stepping out of the supply room and closing the door behind him, he found himself looking at the corpulent form of Captain Waxie. Without a word, Waxie sauntered over to the precinct board. He studied the riot of red and white pins intently, hands clasped behind his back.

“There’s a pattern here,” he said at last.

“Really?” D’Agosta asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

Waxie nodded sagely, keeping his back turned.

D’Agosta said nothing. He knew he was going to regret to his dying day bringing Waxie into the case.

“It originates here.” Waxie’s finger hit a green spot on the map with a soft thump. D’Agosta saw that he had fingered the Ramble, the wildest area of Central Park.

“How do you figure?”

“Simple,” said Waxie. “The Chief had a talk with the top actuary in human resources. He looked at the murder locations, did a best-fit linear analysis, and said they were radiating right from this spot. See? The deaths form a semicircle around this point. The Belvedere Castle murder was the key.”

He turned. “Out there in the Ramble, there are rocks, caves, dense woods. Lots of homeless, too. It’s a perfect hideout. That’swhere we’ll find the killer.”

This time, D’Agosta was unable to keep the incredulity off his face. “Let me get this straight. Some insurance dweeb in personnelgave you this tip? Did he try to sell you on the savings plan, too?”

Waxie frowned, his jowly cheeks turning a rich crimson. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Vinnie. It wasn’t appropriate in the meeting this afternoon, and it isn’t appropriate here.”

“Look, Jack,” D’Agosta said, struggling to keep his patience. “What the hell would an actuary, even a police actuary, know about a murder pattern? That just isn’t enough. You have to take into account ingress, egress, everything. Besides, the Belvedere Castle murder is the one that leastfits the pattern.” Then he gave up. There was no point in telling Waxie anything. Horlocker was one of those chiefs who loved specialists, experts, and consultants. And Waxie was such a yes-man that…

“I’m going to need this map,” Waxie said.

D’Agosta stared at the broad back in front of him. As he did, a light suddenly turned on inside his head. Now he knew what this was all about.

He stood up. “Be my guest,” he said. “The primary case files are in these cabinets here, and Sergeant Hayward has some valuable—”

“I won’t be needing her,” said Waxie. “Just the precinct board and the files. Have them sent over to my office by eight tomorrow morning. Suite 2403. They’re moving me here to headquarters.”

He slowly turned on his heel and eyed D’Agosta. “Sorry, Vinnie. I think it boiled down to a question of chemistry. Me and Horlocker. He needs someone he can relate to. Someone who can keep a lid on the press. Nothing personal, you know. You’ll still be on the case, in one capacity or another. And now that we’re going to start making progress, you might even feel better about things. We’ll be staking out the Ramble, and we’re going to catch this guy.”

“Sure,” said D’Agosta. He reminded himself that this was a no-win case, that he hadn’t wanted it in the first place. It didn’t help.

Waxie held out his hand. “No hard feelings, Vinnie?”

D’Agosta shook the plump warm hand. “None at all, Jack,” he heard himself saying.

Waxie took another look around the office, as if searching for other items worth appropriating. “Well, I gotta go,” he said at last. “I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Thanks.”

They stood for a moment as the uncomfortable silence grew. Then Waxie patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and walked out of the office.

There was a soft rustle as Hayward came up beside him. They stood silently, listening to the footsteps retreat down the linoleum corridor until they were finally lost amidst the low buzz of typing and distant conversations. Then Hayward turned to D’Agosta.

“Lieutenant, how can you let him get away with it?” she asked bitterly. “I mean, when our backs were against the wall down in those tunnels, that mother ran.”

D’Agosta sat down again, feeling inside the upper drawer of his desk for a cigar. “Respect for superiors isn’t your strong suit, is it, Sergeant?” he asked. “Anyway, what makes you so sure this isn’t a reward?” He located the cigar, dug a hole in its crown with a pencil, and lit up.

It was two hours later, as D’Agosta was making final arrangements to move the case files upstairs, that Pendergast strolled into his office. It was Pendergast as D’Agosta remembered him: impeccable black suit severely tailored to his spare frame, blond-white hair combed back from his high forehead, handmade English loafers in polished oxblood. As usual, looking more like a fashionable undertaker than an FBI agent.

Pendergast indicated the visitor’s chair with a brief nod of his head. “May I?”

D’Agosta hung up the phone and nodded. Pendergast slipped into the chair with his catlike grace. He looked around, taking in the boxed files and the bare patch on the wall where the map had once hung. He turned back to D’Agosta, eyebrows raised quizzically.

“It’s Waxie’s headache now.” D’Agosta answered the unspoken question. “I’ve been placed on modified assignment.”

“Indeed,” Pendergast replied. “Lieutenant, you don’t seem dismayed by the turn of events.”

“Dismayed?” D’Agosta said. “Look around again. The precinct board’s gone, the files are packed, Hayward’s in bed, the coffee is hot, the cigar is lit. I feel terrific.”

“I doubt it very much. Still, you’ll probably sleep better tonight than Squire Waxie will. ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’ and all that.” He looked at D’Agosta with an amused expression. “So what’s next?”

“Oh, I’m still assigned to the case,” D’Agosta replied. “Exactly how, Waxie hasn’t bothered to say.”

“He probably doesn’t know himself. But I think we can ensure that you won’t be sitting idle.” Pendergast fell silent and D’Agosta leaned back in his chair, enjoying his cigar, content to let the silence spread out to fill the room.

“I was once in Florence,” Pendergast said at last.

“Oh, yeah? I was just in Italy. Took my son there last fall to see his great-grandmother.”

Pendergast nodded. “Did you visit the Pitti Palace?”

“Pity who?”

“It’s an art museum, actually. Quite exquisite. There’s an old medieval map painted as a fresco on one of its walls, done the year before Columbus discovered America.”

“No kidding.”

“In the place where the continent of America would later be found, the map is blank except for the words Cui ci sono del mostri.

D’Agosta screwed up his face. “Here there are… mostri. What’s that?”

“It means, ‘Here there be monsters.’ ”

“Monsters. Yeah. Jesus, I’ve forgotten my Italian. I used to speak it with my grandparents.”

Pendergast nodded. “Lieutenant, I want you to hazard a guess at something for me.”

“Shoot.”

“Guess the largest inhabited region on earth that remains unmapped.”

D’Agosta shrugged. “I don’t know. Milwaukee?”

Pendergast smiled mirthlessly. “No. And it’s not Outer Mongolia. Or the Antipodes. It’s underground New York.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“I am not ‘shitting you,’ as you so charmingly put it.” Pendergast shifted in his chair. “Vincent, underground New York reminds me of that map. in the Pitti Palace. It is truly unexplored territory. And it is, apparently, unimaginably vast. For example, there are almost a dozen stories’ worth of structures below Grand Central—not counting the sewers and storm drains. The levels below Penn Station go even deeper.”

“So you’ve been down,” D’Agosta said.

“Yes. After meeting with you and Sergeant Hayward. It was an exploratory journey, really. I wanted to get a sense of the environment, test my ability to move around and learn what I could. I was able to speak with a few of the underground dwellers. They told me much, and they hinted at even more.”

D’Agosta sat forward.” “Learn anything about the murders?”

Pendergast nodded. “Indirectly. But those who know the most are deeper underground than I dared go on my first descent. It takes a while to gain these people’s trust, and I have a long way to go. Especially now. You see, the underground homeless are terrified.” Pendergast turned his pale eyes toward D’Agosta. “From piecing together various whispered conversations, I’ve gathered that a mysterious group of people have colonized the underground. And most of the rumors don’t even use the word people.Supposedly, they are feral, cannibalistic, subhuman. And it is these beings who are responsible for the killings.”

There was a pause. D’Agosta stood and moved to the window, gazing out at the nocturnal cityscape of Manhattan. “You believe this?” he asked at last.

“I don’t know,” Pendergast replied. “I need to speak to Mephisto, the leader of the community beneath Columbus Circle. Many of the things he told the Postin that recent article ring disturbingly true. Unfortunately, he’s a difficult man to contact. He is distrustful of all outsiders and hates the authorities with a passion. But I feel he is the one person who can lead me where I have to go.”

D’Agosta’s lips twitched. “Need a partner?” he asked.

A small smile appeared on Pendergast’s face, then disappeared again. “It’s an extremely dangerous and lawless place. However, I will consider the offer. Fair enough?”

D’Agosta nodded.

“Good. Now, I suggest you go home and get some sleep.” Pendergast rose. “Although he doesn’t know it, friend Waxie is going to need all the help he can get.”