Relic

“D’Agosta, don’t be an idiot. He’ll get you all killed. It doesn’t look as if we’ll be getting power back any time soon. Go back to the Hall of the Heavens and wait [367] there. We’ll be sending the SWAT team in through the roof in a couple of minutes.”

“Then you should know that Wright, Cuthbert, and the Public Relations Director are upstairs somewhere, the fourth floor, probably. That’s the only other exit point for that stairwell.”

“What are you talking about? You didn’t take them with you?”

“They refused to come along. Wright cut out on his own and the others followed him.”

“Sounds like they had more sense than you did. Is the Mayor all right? Let me talk to the him.”

D’Agosta handed the radio over. “Are you all right, sir?” Coffey asked urgently.

“We’re in capable hands with the Lieutenant.”

“It’s my strong opinion, sir, that you should head back to the Hall of the Heavens and wait there for assistance. We’re sending in a SWAT team to rescue you.”

“I have every confidence in Lieutenant D’Agosta. As should you.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Rest assured that I’m going to get you safely out of there, sir.”

“Coffey?”

“Sir?”

“There are three dozen people in here besides me. Don’t forget that.”

“But I just want you to know, sir, we’re being extra—”

“Coffey! I don’t think you understood me. Every life down here is worth all the effort you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Mayor handed the radio back to D’Agosta. “Am I wrong, or is that fellow Coffey a horse’s ass?” he muttered.

D’Agosta holstered the radio and proceeded down the passage. Then he stopped, playing his flashlight over an object that loomed out of the blackness in front of them. [368] It was a steel door, closed. The oily water rushed through a thickly barred grating in its bottom panel. He waded closer. It was similar to the door at the base of the stairwell: thick, double-plated, studded with rusty rivets. An old copper lock, covered with verdigris, was looped through a thick metal D ring along the door’s side. D’Agosta grabbed the lock and pulled, but it held fast.

“Pendergast?” said D’Agosta, removing his radio once again.

“Reading.”

“We’re past the first fork, but we’ve hit a steel door, and it’s locked.”

“A locked door? Between the first and second forks?”

“Yes.”

“And you took a right at the first fork?”

“Yes.”

“One minute.” There was a shuffling sound. “Vincent, go back to the fork and take the left-hand tu

D’Agosta wheeled around. “Bailey! We’re heading back to that last fork. All of you, let’s go. On the double!”

The group turned wearily, murmuring, and started moving back through the inky water.

“Wait!” came the voice of Bailey, from the head of the group. “Christ, Lieutenant, do you smell it?”

“No,” said D’Agosta; then “shit!” as the fetid stench enveloped him. “Bailey, we’re going to have to make a stand! I’m coming up. Fire at the son of a bitch!”

Cuthbert sat on the worktable, absently tapping its scarred surface with a pencil eraser. At the far end of the table, Wright sat motionless, his head in his hands. Rickman stood on her tiptoes by the small window. She was angling the flashlight through the bars in front of the glass, switching it on and off with a manicured finger.

[369] A brief flash of lightning silhouetted her thin form, then a low rumble of thunder filled the room.

“It’s pouring out,” she said. “I can’t see a thing.”

“And nobody can see you,” said Cuthbert wearily. “All you’re doing is wearing out the battery. We may need it later.”

With an audible sigh, Rickman switched off the light, plunging the lab once again into darkness.

“I wonder what it did with Montague’s body,” came the slurred voice of Wright. “Ate him up?” Laughter spluttered out of the gloom.

Cuthbert continued tapping the pencil.

“Ate him up! With a little curry and rice, maybe! Montague pilaf!” Wright chuckled.

Cuthbert stood up, reached over toward the Director, and plucked the .357 from Wright’s belt. He checked the bullets, then tucked it into his own belt.

“Return that at once!” Wright demanded.

Cuthbert said nothing.

“You’re a bully, Ian. You’ve always been a bully, a small-minded, jealous bully. First thing Monday morning, I’m going to fire you. In fact, you’re fired now.” Wright stood up unsteadily. “Fired, you hear me?”

Cuthbert was standing at the front door of the laboratory, listening.

“What is it?” Rickman asked in alarm. Cuthbert held his hand up sharply.

Silence.

At length, Cuthbert turned away from the door. “I thought I heard a noise,” he said. He looked toward Rickman. “Lavinia? Could you come here a moment?”

“What is it?” she asked, breathless.

Cuthbert drew her aside. “Hand me the torch,” he said. “Now, listen. I don’t want to alarm you. But should something happen—”

“What do you mean?” she interrupted, her voice breaking.

[370] “Whatever it was that’s been killing people is still loose. I’m not sure we’re safe in here.”

“But the door! Winston said it was two inches thick—”

“I know. Maybe everything will be fine. But those doors to the exhibition were even thicker than that, and I’d like to take a few precautions. Help me move this table up against the door.” He turned toward the Director.

Wright looked up vaguely. “Fired! Clean out your desk by five o’clock Monday.”

Cuthbert pulled Wright to his feet, and sat him in a nearby chair. With Rickman’s help, Cuthbert positioned the table in front of the oak door of the laboratory.

“That will slow it down, anyway,” he said, dusting off his jacket. “Enough for me to get in a few good shots, with luck. At the first sign of trouble, I want you to go through that back door into the Dinosaur Hall and hide. With the security gates down, there’s no other way into the Hall. At least that will put two doors between you and whatever’s out there.” Cuthbert looked around again restlessly. “In the meantime, let’s try to break this window. At least then maybe someone will be able to hear us yelling.”

Wright laughed. “You can’t break the window, you can’t, you can’t. It’s high-impact glass.”

Cuthbert hunted around the lab, finally locating a short piece of angle iron. When he swung it vertically through the bars, it bounced off the glass and was knocked out of his hands.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing his palms together. “We could shoot out the window,” he speculated. “Do you have any more bullets hidden away?”

“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Wright retorted.

Cuthbert opened the filing cabinet and started fumbling in the dark. “Nothing,” he said at last. “We can’t waste bullets on that window. I’ve only got five shots in here.”

[371] “Nothing, nothing, nothing. Didn’t King Lear say that?”

Cuthbert sighed heavily and sat down. Silence filled the room once again, save only the wind and rain, and the distant roll of thunder.

Pendergast lowered the radio and turned toward Margo. “D’Agosta’s in trouble. We’ve got to move fast.”

“Leave me behind,” said Frock quietly. “I’m just going to slow you down.”

“A gallant gesture,” Pendergast told him. “But we need your brains.”

He moved slowly out into the hall, sweeping his light in both directions. Then he signaled all clear. They moved down the hall, Margo pushing the wheelchair before her as quickly as possible.

As they threaded their way, Frock would occasionally whisper a few words of direction. Pendergast stopped at every intersection, gun drawn. Frequently, he halted to listen and smell the air. After a few minutes, he took the chair’s handlebars from an unprotesting Margo. Then they rounded a corner, and the door of the Secure Area stood before them.

For the hundredth time, Margo prayed silently that her plan would work; that she wasn’t simply condemning all of them—including the group trapped in the subbasement—to a horrible death.