Reliquary

He suddenly ploughed into Donovan’s back. Staggering for a moment, he glanced around, trying to determine what had caused the SEAL to stop so suddenly.

Then he saw, in the beam of Donovan’s light, a group of the creatures ahead of them: ten, perhaps a dozen, standing motionless in the thick atmosphere of the outflow tu

“Mother of God,” he breathed. “What do we do now?”

“We blow our way out,” Donovan said quietly, raising his weapon.

= 59 =

MARGO TOOK A deep drag from the oxygen mask, then passed it to Smithback. The oxygen cleared her head immediately, and she glanced around. At the head of the group, Pendergast was placing bricks of plastic explosive around the base of an open hatchway. Each time he pulled another charge from his pack and dropped it in place, clouds of dust and fungus spore billowed up from the ground, obscuring his face momentarily. Behind her stood D’Agosta, weapon at the ready. Mephisto stood to one side, silent and motionless, his eyes red embers in the dark.

Pendergast shoved the detonators into the C-4, then set the time carefully, checking it against his own Patek Philippe. Then he retrieved his pack and rose silently, signaling it was time to move on to the next position. From the circles of his night-vision goggles to the base of his chin, Pendergast was a mask of light gray dust. His normally immaculate black suit was torn and muddied. Under other circumstances, he would have looked ridiculous. But Margo was in no mood to laugh.

The air was so bad she realized she had placed a hand protectively over her nose and mouth. She gave up and took another pull from the mask.

“Don’t Bogart that oxygen,” Smithback whispered. He smiled weakly, but his eyes remained grim and distant.

They moved down the narrow corridor, Margo now helping Smithback through the darkness. Huge iron rivets, spaced about ten feet apart, hung from the ceiling. After a couple of minutes, they stopped again while Pendergast consulted his plans, then took the charges from Margo’s pack and placed them in a niche near the roof.

“Very good,” he said. “One more series and we can head for the surface. We’ll need to move quickly.”

He started down the passage, then stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” Margo whispered, but Pendergast held up his hand for silence.

“Do you hear that?” he asked at last in a low tone.

Margo listened, but could hear nothing. The close, fetid atmosphere was like cotton wool, muffling all sound. But now she heard something: a dull thump, then another, like rolling thunder far beneath their feet.

“What is that?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Pendergast murmured.

“It’s not the SEALs, setting off their explosions?”

Pendergast shook his head. “Doesn’t sound powerful enough to be plastique. Besides, it’s too early.” He listened a moment, frowning, then motioned them forward again. Margo followed close behind, leading Smithback as the passage rose, then fell, tracing a crazy course through the bedrock. She found herself wondering who could have constructed this passage, perhaps three dozen stories beneath the streets of Manhattan. She saw herself as in a vision, walking along Park Avenue, but the road appeared as just a thin skin of asphalt, covering a vast network of shafts, tu

She gave her head a vicious shake and took another hit of the oxygen. As her thoughts cleared again, she realized that the muffled sound was still coming from somewhere beneath her feet. Now, however, it was different: it had a cadence, like the sound of a throbbing engine, rising and falling and rising again.

Pendergast stopped again. “Nobody speak above a whisper. Understood? Vincent, ready the flash.”

Ahead of them, the tu

As she stepped carefully into the enclosed space, Margo realized that the sound beneath her feet was the beating of drums, mingled with what sounded like a low, murmuring chant.

D’Agosta jostled her from behind as he stepped into the compartment, and she jumped forward with a sharp intake of air. She could see ancient brass levers and gears lining one wall, their broken dials encrusted with verdigris and dirt. A massive winch and several rusted generators stood in the far corner.

Pendergast moved swiftly to the center of the room and knelt by a large metal plate. “This was the central switching room for the Astor Tu

He waited until an absolute silence had descended on the group, then he slipped the corroded brackets from the plate and slid it carefully to one side. As Margo watched, a flickering light came streaming up, and the goatish odor—the old, familiar scent of nightmare—grew stronger. The sound of drumming and muffled chanting swelled. Pendergast peered down, the lambent glow from the Crystal Pavilion moving fitfully across his face. He stared for a long time, then stepped back slowly. “Vincent,” he said, “I think perhaps you should take a look.”

D’Agosta stepped forward, tilted up his goggles, and peered into the hole. Margo could see beads of sweat popping out on his brow in the faint light, and his hand unconsciously settled on the butt of his gun. He stepped back wordlessly.

Then Margo felt Smithback push himself forward. He stared, breathing loudly through his nose, hardly seeming to blink.

“Ah, the scriblerian in heat,” whispered Mephisto sarcastically.

But Smithback did not look to Margo as if he was enjoying the view. His hands began to shake, first slightly, then almost uncontrollably. He allowed D’Agosta to pull him away from the viewplate, a look of horror frozen on his face.

Pendergast gestured to Margo. “Dr. Green, I’d like your opinion,” he whispered.

She knelt by the hole, lifted her goggles, and peered down into the cavernous space. For a moment her mind couldn’t quite grasp the image that was spread out beneath her. She found herself looking down through the remains of a shattered chandelier into the center of the vast space. She could make out the ruins of what had once been a room of great elegance: Doric columns, giant murals, and tattered velvet draperies contrasted with the mud and filth that coated the walls. Directly beneath her, in between the cracked candelabra arms and dangling crystals, she could make out the hut of skulls that Pendergast had described. A least a hundred hooded figures stamped and shuffled in front of the hut, swaying in ragged lines, murmuring a toneless, unintelligible chant. In the distance, the monotonous tattoo drummed on as more figures streamed in, taking their places, picking up the chant. Margo stared, blinked, stared again in mingled fascination and horror. There could be no doubt: these were the Wrinklers.

“It seems like some kind of ritual,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” Pendergast replied from the darkness beside her. “No doubt this is the other reason that people were never killed on the nights of the full moon. The ritual, whatever it is, is still in place. The question is, who or what is leading it, now that Kawakita has been killed?”

“It’s quite possible there was some kind of coup d’état, Margo said. “In primitive societies, the shaman was often killed and replaced by a rival shaman, usually a dominant figure from within the group.” She watched, intrigued despite the great fear and loathing she felt. “My God. If only Frock could see this.”