Reliquary

“Jesus, Pendergast, what the hell did you say to him?” Waxie said over the screams, hoisting himself to his feet.

“The right thing, apparently.” Pendergast glanced at Hayward. “Please give this fellow every comfort. I think we can let Captain Waxie take over from here.”

“So who is that guy?” D’Agosta asked as the elevator carried them back up toward the Homicide Division.

“I’m not sure what his real name is,” Pendergast replied, smoothing his tie. “But it isn’t Jeoffry. And he’s not the person we’re looking for.”

“Tell Waxie that.”

Pendergast glanced mildly at D’Agosta. “What we saw, Lieutenant, was a classic case of paranoid schizophrenia, aggravated by multiple personality disorder. You noticed how the man seemed to weave in and out of two personas? There was the blustering tough guy, no doubt as unconvincing to you as to me. Then there was the killer visionary—infinitely more dangerous. Did you hear? ‘For secondly, he hissed at me, like a snake out of Egypt.’ Or ‘Jeoffry, the cherub cat.’ ”

“Of course I heard it. The guy was talking like somebody just handed him the Ten Commandments or something.”

“Or something. You’re right, his ravings had the structure and cadence of written speech. This occurred to me, also. At that point, I recognized he was quoting from the old poem Jublilate Agno, by Christopher Smart.”

“Never heard of it.”

Pendergast smile faintly. “It’s a fairly obscure work by a fairly obscure writer. It is undeniably powerful in its strange vision, however; you should read it. The author, Smart, wrote it while he himself was half-insane in a debtor’s prison. In any case, there’s a long passage in the poem in which Smart describes his cat, Jeoffry, whom Smart believed to be some kind of chrysalis creature undergoing a physical conversion.”

“If you say so. But what does all this have to do with our vocal friend back there?”

“Obviously, the poor fellow identifies himself with the cat in the poem.”

“The cat?” D’Agosta asked incredulously.

“Why not? Kit Smart—the real Kit Smart—certainly did. It’s an extremely powerful image of metamorphosis. I feel sure this poor fellow was once an academician, or a failed poet, before the creeping descent into madness began. He killed one man, true enough—but only when his path was crossed at the wrong time. As for the rest…” Pendergast waved his hand. “There are many indications this man is not our true target.”

“Like the photographs,” D’Agosta said. All good interrogators knew that no killer could keep his eyes from photographs of his victims or artifacts from the crime scene. Yet, as far as D’Agosta could tell, Jeffrey had never moved his eyes to either picture.

“Exactly.” The elevator doors whispered open, and the two made their way through the hubbub toward D’Agosta’s office. “Or the fact that this murder, as Waxie describes it, has none of the elements of the blitzkrieg attacks suffered by the other victims. In any case, once I recognized his neurotic identification with the poem, it was easy enough to goad his madness to the surface.”

Pendergast closed the office door and waited until D’Agosta was seated before continuing. “But let’s put this irritating business behind us. Have you had any luck on that cross-correlation I requested?”

“DP just delivered it this morning.” D’Agosta thumbed through a tall sheaf of miniprinter output. “Let’s see. Eighty-five percent of the victims were male. And ninety-two percent were residents of Manhattan, including transients.”

“I’m primarily interested in things that all the victims had in common.”

“Gotcha.” There was a pause. “All had last names begi

Pendergast’s mouth twitched in what might have been a faint smile.

“All were older than twelve and younger than fifty-six. None of the victims were born in November.”

“Go on.”

“I think that’s it.” D’Agosta flipped some more pages. “Oh, here’s something else. We ran the data through SMUD, checking for various traits associated with serial murderers. The only common thread it found was that none of the murders were committed during a full moon.”

Pendergast sat up. “Indeed? That’s worth remembering. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Thank you.” He sank back in the chair. “Still, it’s precious little. Information is what we need, Vincent, hard facts. And that’s why I can’t wait any longer.”

D’Agosta looked at him, uncomprehending. Then he frowned. “You’re not going down again.”

“Indeed I am. If Captain Waxie continues to insist this man is the killer, then the extra patrols will be called off. Vigilance will fade. Creating an atmosphere that can only make additional killings easier.”

“Where will you go?” D’Agosta asked.

“To the Devil’s Attic.”

D’Agosta snorted. “Come on, Pendergast. You don’t even know if such a place exists, let alone how to get there. You’ve got nothing but the word of that hobo.”

“I believe Mephisto’s word to be reliable,” Pendergast replied. “And in any case, I have considerably more than just his word. I’ve spoken with a city engineer named Al Diamond. He explained that the so-called Devil’s Attic is in reality a series of tu

D’Agosta stared at the map. Except for a few locations in the Park, almost all the white and red pins were clustered along the lines Pendergast had drawn.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

“You could say that,” Pendergast said. “Diamond also pointed out that the sections of tu

D’Agosta reached into his desk for a cigar. “I’m coming along.”

“Sorry, Vincent. You’re essential up here, now that the rest of the force is about to let down its guard. And I need you to work with Margo Green to determine the precise nature of Kawakita’s movements. We haven’t yet heard the last of his involvement in all this. In any case, this time around my goal will be stealth. It’s an extremely dangerous trip. Two of us would double the chances of our being discovered.” He replaced the marker cap with a snap of his finger. “However, if you could spare Sergeant Hayward’s expertise for a few hours, I could use some help in my preparations.”

Scowling, D’Agosta put the cigar down. “Christ, Pendergast—that’s a long trip down. You’ll be gone overnight.”

“More than that, I’m afraid.” The FBI agent put the marker back on the desk. “If you don’t hear from me within seventy-two hours…” He paused. Then, suddenly, he smiled and grasped D’Agosta’s hand. “A rescue mission would be foolish.”

“What about food?”

Pendergast feigned surprise. “Have you forgotten the delicacy of track rabbit au vin, spit-roasted over an open fire?”

D’Agosta grimaced, and Pendergast smiled reassuringly. “Fear not, Lieutenant. I’ll be well provisioned. Food, maps, all I need.”

“It’s like the journey to the center of the earth,” D’Agosta said, shaking his head.

“Indeed. I do feel a bit like an explorer setting out into parts unknown, peopled by unknown tribes. Odd to think it exists directly beneath our feet. Cui ci sono del mostri, my friend. Let us hope I avoid i mostri. Friend Hayward will see me off.”

Pendergast stood motionless a moment, apparently lost in thought. Then, with a final nod at D’Agosta, he swept out of the office and into the corridor beyond, the silk nap of his black suit shining dully under the fluorescent lights, the last of the great explorers.