Reliquary

“How the hell will they know we were here?”

“I keep telling you, Lieutenant, they’re around. Listening.”

D’Agosta shone his light about. The corridor was silent and dead. “So what’s your point?”

“If you want the head, you’re going to have to take it with you.”

“Shit,” breathed D’Agosta. “Okay, Sergeant, we’ll have to improvise. Grab that towel over there.”

Stepping in front of the motionless Waxie, Sergeant Hayward picked up a water-logged towel and spread it on the damp concrete next to the head. Then, pulling the sleeve of her uniform over her hand, she nudged the head toward the towel with her wrist.

D’Agosta watched with mixed disgust and admiration as Hayward gathered the ends of the towel into a ball. He blinked his eyes, trying to wipe away the smart of the foul reek. “Let’s go. Sergeant, you may do the honors.”

“No problem.” Hayward lifted the towel, holding it away from her body.

As D’Agosta stepped forward, shining his flashlight back down the corridor toward the staircase, there was a sudden whistling sound and a bottle came winging out of the dark, just missing Waxie’s head. It shattered loudly on the wall. Farther down the passageway, D’Agosta could hear a rustling noise.

“Who’s there?” he yelled. “Halt! Police officers!”

Another bottle came flying wildly out of the dark. D’Agosta realized, with a strange crawly feeling at the base of his spine, that he could feel, but not see, shapes moving toward them.

“There’s only three of us, Lieutenant,” Hayward said, tension suddenly evident in her dusky voice. “May I suggest we get the hell out of here?”

There was a raspy call from out of the dark, then a shout and the sound of ru

“For Chrissakes, Captain, get hold of yourself!” D’Agosta shouted.

Waxie began to whimper. From the other side, D’Agosta heard a hissing noise, and he turned to see Hayward’s petite figure standing tense and erect. Her slender hands were at her sides with the knuckles pointed in, the towel and its burden dangling from her fingers. She took another deep, hissing breath, as if in preparation. Then she looked around quickly and turned back toward the staircase, once again holding the head at arm’s length.

“Jesus, don’t leave me!” Waxie howled.

D’Agosta gave Waxie’s shoulder a vicious tug. With a low groan, Waxie began to move, first slowly and then faster, bursting past Hayward.

“Move!” D’Agosta called, pushing Hayward ahead of him with one hand. He felt something whiz past his ear, and he stopped, turned, drew his gun, and fired toward the ceiling. In the muzzle flash he saw a dozen or more people coming up the dark tu

One level up, on the far side of the hanging door, he stopped at last to listen, gulping air. Hayward waited beside him, gun in hand. There was no sound except the footsteps of Waxie, far ahead of them now, ru

After a moment, D’Agosta stepped back. “Sergeant, if you ever suggest backup in the future—or make any other suggestion, for that matter—remind me to pay attention to it.”

Hayward holstered her gun. “I was afraid you’d wig out down there, like the Captain did,” she said. “But you did well for a virgin, sir.”

D’Agosta looked at her, realizing this was the first time she had addressed him as a superior officer. He thought about asking just what the hell that weird breathing of hers had been about, but decided against it. “Still got it?” he said instead.

Hayward raised the towel.

“Then let’s get the hell out. We’ll see the rest of the sites some other time.”

On the way to the surface, the image that kept returning to D’Agosta was not the circling mob, or the endless dank tu

= 12 =

MARGO WASHED HER hands in the deep metal sink of the Forensic Anthropology lab, then dried them on a coarse hospital cloth. She glanced over at the gurney on which the sheeted remains of Pamela Wisher lay. The samples and observations had all been taken, and the corpse would be released to the family later that morning. Across the room, Brambell and Frock were at work on the unidentified skeleton, bending over its grotesquely twisted hips and taking elaborate measurements.

“If I may make an observation?” Dr. Brambell said, putting a vibrating Stryker saw to one side.

“Be my guest,” Frock replied in his buttery rumble, waving a hand magnanimously.

They detested each other.

Margo slipped two latex gloves onto each hand, turning to hide a smile. It was probably the first time she’d seen Frock face a man with an intellect, or an ego, equal to his own. It was a miracle that any work had been accomplished. Yet over the past few days they had performed antibody testing, osteological analysis, tests for toxic residues and teratogens, as well as numerous other procedures. All that remained was the DNA sequencing and forensic analysis of the teeth marks. Yet the unknown corpse remained a riddle, refusing to yield up its secrets. Margo knew this only added to the highly charged atmosphere within the lab.

“It should be obvious to the meanest intelligence,” Brambell was saying, his high Irish voice trembling with irritation, “that the puncture cannot have originated on the dorsal side. Otherwise, the transverse process would have been clipped.”

“I fail to see what clipping has to do with anything,” muttered Frock.

Margo tuned out the argument, most of which was uninteresting to her anyway. Her specialty was ethnopharmacology and genetics, not gross anatomy. She had other problems to solve.

She leaned over the latest gel electrophoresis run on tissue from the unidentified corpse, feeling her trapezius muscles cry out in protest as she reached forward. Five sets of ten reps with the upright rows the night before, instead of her normal three. She’d upped her workout routine dramatically over the last several days; she would have to be more careful not to overdo it.

Ten minutes of close scrutiny confirmed her suspicions: the dark stripes of the various protein elements could tell her little beyond being common human muscle proteins. She straightened up with a sigh. Any more detailed genetic information would have to come from the much more sensitive DNA sequencing machine. Unfortunately, reliable results would not be available for several more days.

As she placed the gel strips to one side, rubbing her shoulder thoughtfully, she noticed a manila envelope lying next to the SPARC-10 workstation. X rays, she thought. They must have arrived first thing this morning. Obviously, Brambell and Frock had been too busy arguing over the corpse to look at them. It was understandable: with a body that was almost completely skeletonized already, X rays weren’t likely to tell them very much.

“Margo?” Frock called.

She walked over to the examining table.

“My dear,” Frock said, pushing his wheelchair away and gesturing toward the microscope, “please examine this groove ru

The Stereozoom was on lowest power, yet it was still like gazing into another world. The brown bone leaped into view, revealing the ridges and valleys of a miniature desert landscape.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

It wasn’t the first time Margo had been called to give an opinion in a dispute, and she didn’t relish the role. “It looks like a natural fissure in the bone,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “Part of the suite of bone spurs and ridges that seem to have affected the skeleton. I wouldn’t necessarily say it was caused by a tooth.”