Reliquary

“Yes,” Pendergast replied. “If one of these creatures took Kawakita’s place, killing him in the process, that could explain why the murders have grown more numerous and more vicious.”

“Look at how they walk,” Margo whispered. “Almost as if they were bowlegged. Could be incipient scurvy. If they can’t take vitamin D into their systems, that would be a result.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion, a chorus of guttural sound beyond Margo’s field of vision. The group of Wrinklers shuffled apart. There was a low series of calls, and then Margo saw a figure, cloaked and hooded like the rest, being carried slowly into view in a sedan chair made of bone and twisted leather. As she watched, the procession approached the hut, incorporeal in the flickering light. The sedan chair was carried inside, and the swelling of the chant increased, reverberating through the chamber.

“Looks like the shaman’s arrived,” she said breathlessly. “The ceremony, whatever it is, could start at any moment.”

“Hadn’t we better get moving?” she heard D’Agosta mutter. “I hate to spoil this National Geographic moment, but there’s about thirty pounds of high explosive down the hall, just waiting to go off.”

“That’s correct,” Pendergast said. “And one last charge to set.” He placed his hand on Margo’s arm. “We must get moving, Dr. Green.”

“Just a minute, please,” she hissed. There was a sudden stir in the crowd below, and perhaps a dozen cloaked figures came into view, heading directly for the hut. At the entrance they knelt, arranging several small black objects in a semicircle. The chanting continued as a figure stepped out of the hut, bearing two burning torches.

Margo looked closer, trying to determine what the black things were. There were six of them, and from her vantage point, they looked like irregularly shaped rubber balls. Obviously, they were an integral part of the ceremony. The Chudzi tribe of Natal, she remembered, had used round stones, painted white and red, to symbolize the daily cycle of—

Then one of the figures tugged at the nearest object, the black rubber cowl sloughed away, and Margo took an instinctive step backward, smothering a groan of dismay.

Pendergast quickly moved to the opening and stared downwards for a long moment. Then he stood up and stepped away. “We’ve lost the SEAL team,” he said.

Mephisto came forward, glancing down into the flickering space, his long tangle of beard given a Mephistophelean tinge by the ruddy glow. “Now dearies, don’t forget it’s dangerous to swim after a heavy meal,” he muttered to them.

“You think they set their charges before…?” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off in the darkness.

“We’ll just have to hope they did,” Pendergast murmured, sliding the cover back into position. “Let’s set the last charge and leave while there’s still time. Keep in position. Remember, we’re practically in their nest now. Exercise hypervigilance.”

“Hypervigilance.” Mephisto snorted.

Pendergast gazed toward the homeless leader in mild reproof. “We’ll discuss your low opinion of me—and my own opinion of your taste in haute cuisine—some other time,” he said, turning toward the exit.

They left through a passage on the far side of the housing and moved quickly along the passageway. After traveling about a hundred yards, Pendergast stopped short at a spot where a ragged-walled tu

“Odd,” the FBI agent said, gazing at the intersecting tu

“They moved forward again, arriving in a few minutes at the entrance to what looked like an old maintenance area. Massive rusted wheels were stacked against one wall, along with what looked to Margo like various types of signaling and switching equipment. A tin lunch box sat on a rotting table; inside, Margo could see the ancient, desiccated skeleton of a half-chicken. The whole place had the air of being abandoned in a hurry.

“God, what a spot,” D’Agosta said. “Makes you wonder what the true story of these tu

“Or if anybody still knows it almost a century later,” Pendergast said. He nodded toward a metal-banded door in a far corner, between stacks of dusty equipment. “That’s the maintenance stairway leading down to the Astor Tu

“What’s that for?” D’Agosta asked. “Camouflage?”

“Exactly,” came Pendergast’s whispered reply as he molded the charge around the base of a cement pylon. “This is apparently a more heavily trafficked area.” He nodded back down the tu

“Jesus,” Margo breathed. The floor of the passage they had just come down was lined with the tracks of countless bare feet. She dug for the mask and took a drag of oxygen. The humidity was close to one hundred percent. She took another deep breath from the mask, then offered it to Smithback.

“Thanks,” he said, taking two slow hits. Margo watched as a dull gleam returned to his eyes. His hair hung limply over his forehead, and his shirt was torn and streaked with blood. Poor Bill, she thought. He looks like something that just crawled out of a sewer. Come to think of it, that’s not far wrong.

“What was going on topside?” Margo asked, hoping to draw him out of his thoughts.

“All hell was breaking loose,” the journalist replied, handing the mask back to her solemnly. “In the middle of Wisher’s march, hundreds of mole people began popping up from underground. Right there on Broadway. I heard somebody say the cops teargassed the tu

“Mole people, scriblerian?” Mephisto hissed. “Yes, we’re mole people. We shun the light, not because of its warmth or its brightness, but because of what it shows us. Venality, and corruption, and countless useless worker ants ru

“Stow it,” D’Agosta snapped. “Just get me back to that venal, corrupt surface, and I promise you can crawl into the deepest shithole you can find and I’ll never come looking for you, ever.”

“While you two have been filling the air with strophe and antistrophe, I have set the final charge,” Pendergast said, rubbing his hands and tossing away the now-empty munitions bag. “I’m surprised you haven’t brought the entire foul nest down on us with your bickering. Now let’s get out, as quickly as possible. We have less than thirty minutes.” He led the way back out of the storage area.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was a brief silence.

“Vincent,” Margo heard him whisper. “Are you ready?”

“I was born ready.”

Pendergast checked the nozzle on the flamethrower. “If necessary, I’ll flame, then we retreat. Wait for the flames to clear before advancing. This fires a fast, clean-burning mixture designed for close fighting, but the propellant clings to surfaces for several seconds before flaring out. Understood? Remove your goggles and get ready to close your eyes against the flash. Hold off until I signal. The rest of you, ready your weapons.”

“What is it?” Margo whispered, pulling out the Glock and snapping off the safety. Then she smelt it: the foul reek of the creatures, hanging in the air like an apparition.

“We’ve got to get past that access vent,” Pendergast whispered. “Let’s go.”

Then there was a sudden scrabbling in the tu