Reliquary

Pendergast nodded. “Three of our people have been missing since last week, and the rest are getting concerned. We heard your call for alliance against the Wrinklers. The headless killers.”

“Word is getting around. Two days ago I heard from the Philosopher. Know of him?”

Pendergast hesitated for just a second. “No,” he replied.

Mephisto’s eyes narrowed. “Odd,” he said. “He’s my counterpart, leader of the communities beneath Grand Central.”

“Perhaps some day we shall meet,” Pendergast said. “For now, I need to take word back, reassurances for my people. What can you tell me about the killings and the killers?”

“They started almost a year ago,” Mephisto replied in a silky hiss. “First was Joe Atcitty. We found his body dumped outside the Blockhouse, head gone. Next, Dark A

Pendergast frowned. “Manders?”

Again, Mephisto shot a suspicious glance toward him. “Never heard of the Manders?” He cackled. “You ought to stretch your legs more, get out, see the neighborhood, Mayor Whitey. The Manders live below us. Never come up, never use lights. Like salamanders. Versteht? They said there were signs of movement below them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They said the Devil’s Attic had been colonized.”

D’Agosta looked questioningly at Pendergast. But the FBI agent merely nodded. “The lowest level of the city,” he said, as if to himself.

“The very lowest,” Mephisto replied.

“Have you been down there?” Pendergast asked with deliberate casualness.

Mephisto flashed him a look as if to imply even he wasn’t that crazy.

“But you think these people are behind the killings?”

“I don’t think it. I know it. They’re beneath us, right now.” Mephisto smiled grimly. “But I’m not sure I’d use the word people.”

“What do you mean?” Pendergast said, the casualness gone from his voice.

“Rumor,” Mephisto said very quietly. “They say they’re called Wrinklers for a reason.”

“Which is—?”

Mephisto did not answer.

Pendergast sat back on his crate. “So what can we do?”

“What can we do?” The smile vanished from Mephisto’s face. “We can wake up this city, that’s what we can do! We can show them that it won’t just be the mole people, the invisible people, who die!”

“And if we do that?” Pendergast asked. “What can the city do about these Wrinklers?”

Mephisto thought a moment. “Like any infestation. Get them where they live.”

“Easier said than done.”

Mephisto’s hard, glittery gaze landed on the FBI agent. “You got a better idea, Whitey?” he hissed.

Pendergast was silent. “Not yet,” he said at last.

= 24 =

ROBERT WILLSON, librarian at the New York Historical Society, looked at the other occupant of the map room with irritation. Odd-looking guy: somber black suit, pale cat’s eyes, blond-white hair combed severely back from a high forehead. A

As if on cue, the man got out of his chair and glided over noiselessly. “Pardon?” he said in his polite but insistent mint-julep drawl.

Willson glanced up from the screen. “Yes?” he snapped.

“I hate to trouble you again, but it’s my understanding that the Vaux and Olmstead plans for Central Park called for canals to drain the Central Park swamps. I wonder if I could look at those plans?”

Willson compressed his lips. “Those plans were rejected by the Parks Commission,” he replied. “They’ve been lost. A tragedy.” He turned back to his screen, hoping the man would take the hint. The real tragedy would be if he didn’t get back to his monograph.

“I see,” the visitor said, not taking the hint at all. “Then tell me, how were the swamps drained?”

Willson sat back in his chair exasperatedly. “I should have thought it was common knowledge. The old Eighty-sixth Street aqueduct was used.”

“And there are plans for the operation?”

“Yes,” said Willson.

“May I see them?”

With a sigh, Willson got up and made his way through the heavy door back into the stacks. It was, of course, in its usual mess. The room managed to be both vast and claustrophobic, metal shelves reaching two stories into the gloom, tottering with rolled maps and moldering blueprints. Willson could almost feel the dust settling on his bald scalp as he sca

“Here they are,” Willson said, placing them on the mahogany counter. He watched as the man took them over to his desk and began looking them over, jotting notes and making sketches in a small leather-bound notebook. He’s got money, Willson thought sourly. No professor could afford a suit like that.

A heavenly quiet descended on the map room. At last, he could get some work done. Bringing some yellowed reference photographs out of his desk, Willson began making changes to his chapter on clan imagery.

Within minutes, he felt the visitor standing behind him again. Willson looked up again silently.

The man nodded at one of Willson’s photographs. It showed a nondescript stone carved in an abstract representation of an animal, a small piece of sinew holding a flint point to its back. “I think you’ll find that particular fetish, which I see you’ve labeled as a puma, is in fact a grizzly bear,” the man said.

Willson looked at the pale face and the faint smile, wondering if this was some kind of a joke. “Cushing, who collected this fetish in 1883, specifically identified it as puma clan,” he replied. “You can check the reference yourself.” Everybody was an expert these days.

“The grizzly fetish,” the man continued undeterred, “always has a spearpoint strapped to its back, as this one does. The puma fetish has an arrowhead.”

Willson straightened up. “Just what is the difference, may I ask?”

“You kill a puma with a bow and arrow. To kill a grizzly, you must use a spear.”

Willson was silent.

“Cushing was wrong on occasion,” the man added gently.

Willson shuffled his manuscript together and laid it aside. “Frankly, I would prefer to trust Cushing over someone…” He left the sentence unfinished. “The library will be closing in one hour,” he added.

“In that case,” the man said, “I wonder if I could see the plates from the 1956 Upper West Side Natural Gas Pipeline Survey.”

Willson compressed his lips. “Which ones?”

“All of them, if you please.”

This was too much. “I’m sorry,” Willson said crisply. “It’s against the rules. Patrons are allowed only ten maps at a time from the same series.” He glared at the visitor triumphantly.

But the man seemed oblivious, lost in thought. Suddenly, he looked back at the librarian.

“Robert Willson,” he said, pointing at the nameplate. “Now I remember why your name is familiar.”

“You do?” Willson asked uncertainly.

“Indeed. Aren’t you the one who gave the excellent paper on mirage stones at the Navajo Studies Conference in Window Rock last year?”

“Why, yes, I did,” Willson said.

“I thought so. I wasn’t able to be there myself, but I read the proceedings. I’ve made something of a private study of southwestern religious imagery.” The visitor paused. “Nothing as serious as yours, of course.”

Willson cleared his throat. “I suppose one ca