The Book of the Dead

Reluctantly, Smithback advanced toward the crowd. “FBI!” he said unconvincingly. “Make way!”

The crowds didn’t even notice him.

“Make way, damn it!”

Now some of the crowd stared back at him like a herd of cows, placid, unmoving.

“The sooner you fire, the sooner you will have their attention,” Pendergast said.

“Make way!” Smithback raised the gun. “Emergency!”

A few at the front perceived what was coming, and there was a flurry of action, but the mass of the crowd between them and the subway entrance just stood there dumbly.

Bracing himself, Smithback squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He squeezed harder-and the gun went off with a terrific boom, jolting him.

A chorus of screams erupted and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

“What the hell you think you’re doing?” Two cops started ru

“FBI!” Pendergast shouted as they rushed forward into the breach. “This is an emergency federal action. Do not interfere!”

“Let’s see your shield, sir!”

The back of the crowd was already coalescing and Smithback realized his mission was not yet accomplished. “Make way!” he yelled, firing the gun again while walking forward, to dramatic effect.

A series of screams, and a fresh pathway appeared almost miraculously before them.

“You crazy bastard!” somebody shouted. “Firing a gun like that!”

Smithback broke into a run, Pendergast following as quickly as he dared behind him. The cops attempted to give chase, but the crowd had already drawn together behind them. Smithback could hear the cops cursing as they tried to fight their way through.

A minute later, they’d reached the entrance to the subway, and here Pendergast went ahead, taking the stairs quickly yet with remarkable smoothness, still cradling the small flask. They trotted along the deserted platform, ducked around a corner at the far end, into the museum’s subway entrance. Halfway down it, Smithback could see two figures: D’Agosta and Hayward.

“Where’s our entry point?” Pendergast called out as he arrived.

“Between those lines,” said Hayward, indicating two lines that had been marked on the tiles with lipstick.

Pendergast knelt and placed the flask carefully against the wall, positioning it between the lines. Then he stood and turned to face the little group. “If you would all please withdraw around the corner? My sidearm, Mr. Smithback?”

As Smithback handed the gun to the agent, he heard the sound of feet charging down the stairwell into the station. He followed Pendergast back around the corner onto the platform proper, where they crouched against the wall.

“NYPD!” came a shouted command from the far end of the station. “Drop your weapons and freeze!”

“Stay back!” Hayward shouted, waving her badge. “Police action in progress!”

“Identify yourself!”

“Captain Laura Hayward, Homicide!”

That seemed to flummox them.

Smithback saw Pendergast taking careful aim. He shrank closer to the wall.

“Stand down, Captain!” one of the policemen yelled.

“Take cover now!” came Hayward’s reply.

“Ready?” Pendergast asked quietly. “On the count of three. One…”

“I repeat, Captain, stand down!”

“Two…”

“And I repeat, you idiots: take cover!”

“Three.”

There was another gunshot, followed immediately by a terrific, earthshaking roar, and then a concussive blast that smacked Smithback hard against the chest and knocked him to the cement floor. Instantly the entire station filled with cement dust. Smithback lay on his back, dazed, the wind temporarily knocked from him. Chips of cement pattered down around him like rain.

“Holy shit!” It was D’Agosta’s voice, but the man himself was invisible in the sudden gloom.

Vaguely, Smithback could hear confused shouting from the other end of the station. He pulled himself to a sitting position, choking and spluttering, ears ringing, and felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then Pendergast’s voice was in his ear.

“Mr. Smithback? We’re going in now, and I’ll need your help. Stop the show-rip out wires, rip down screens, smash lights, but stop the show. We must do that before we do anything else-even before we help the people. Do you understand?”

“Call for backup!” came the choking cry from somewhere at the far end of the platform.

“Do you understand?” Pendergast asked urgently.

Smithback coughed, nodded. The agent pulled him to his feet.

“Now!” Pendergast whispered.

They bolted around the corner, D’Agosta and Hayward at their heels. The dust had cleared just enough to show a gaping hole in the wall. From it gushed billows of fog, brilliantly illuminated by the maniacal flashing of strobe lights.

Smithback held his breath, readied himself. Then he ducked inside.

Chapter 66

Just inside the breach, they paused. The heavy mist was pouring out of the gap like water from a broken dam, filling the tu

“What the hell is going on?” D’Agosta asked behind him.

Pendergast moved forward without answering, waving away the swirling tendrils of fog. As they approached the huge stone sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, the agent paused, looked around at the ceiling, took aim, and fired: a fixture in the corner exploded in a flash of sparks and streamers of glass. He rotated his stance, fired again, and then again, until all the strobes were dead-although flashing could still be seen coming through the doorway to the next room of the tomb, and the hideous sounds continued.

They moved forward again. Smithback felt a sudden lurch in his gut: as the fog cleared, he could see bodies on the ground, moving feebly. The floor was slick with blood.

“Oh, no.” Smithback looked around wildly. “Nora!”

But it was impossible to hear anything over the maddening wall of noise that seemed to penetrate his very bones. He took a few more steps, frantically waving away the mist. Another explosion from Pendergast’s gun, followed by the hollow screech of feedback and an electric arc as an audio speaker crashed to the floor. Still, the sound throbbed on, unabated. Smithback grabbed some loose wires, yanked.

A plainclothes policeman approached them, staggering as if half drunk. His face was scratched and bleeding, and his shirt was torn and hanging in strips. His shield flapped on his belt as he moved, and his service piece dangled from one hand like a forgotten appendage.

Hayward frowned in surprise. “Rogerson?” she asked.

The cop’s eyes swiveled toward her briefly, then swiveled away. After a second, he turned his back on them and began staggering off. Hayward reached over and plucked the gun from the man’s unresisting hand.

“What the hell happened here?” D’Agosta cried, looking around at the scattering of torn clothes, shoes, blood, and injured guests.

“There’s no time to explain,” Pendergast said. “Captain Hayward, you and Lieutenant D’Agosta head up to the front of the tomb. You will find most of the guests up there, clustered at the entrance. Lead them back here and out through the gap in the wall. But be careful: many of them have undoubtedly become unhinged as a result of this sound-and-light show. They may be violent. Take care not to cause a stampede.” He turned to Smithback. “We must find that generator.”