Reliquary

Margo glanced at the two skeletons. Then she looked toward her old professor.

“Dr. Frock?” she began. “You don’t think this could be the work of a—”

He turned suddenly, an odd expression on his ruddy face. Their eyes locked, and he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered fiercely. “Not until we’re certain.”

Margo held his gaze for a moment. Finally she nodded and turned toward the bank of light switches. What had not been said between them was much more unsettling than the two grisly skeletons.

= 6 =

IN THE SMOKY recesses of the Cat’s Paw bar, Smithback wedged himself into a narrow telephone booth. Balancing his drink in one hand and squinting at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed the number of his office, wondering how many messages would be waiting for him this time.

Smithback never doubted that he was one of the greatest journalists in New York. Probably the greatest. A year and a half ago, he’d brought the story of the Museum Beast to the world. And not in the usual dickless, detached way: He’d been there with D’Agosta and the others, struggling in the dark on that April night. On the strength of the book which quickly followed, he’d secured this position as Post crime correspondent. Now the Wisher thing had come along, and none too soon, either. Big stories were rarer than he could have guessed, and there were always others—like that stain-on-the-wall Bryce Harriman, crime reporter for the Times—out to scoop him. But if he played it right, this could be as big as the Mbwun story had been. Maybe bigger.

A great journalist, he mused as he listened to the phone ring, adapts himself to the options offered him. Take the Wisher story. He had been totally unprepared for the mother. She’d been impressive. Smithback found himself embarrassed and deeply moved. Fired by those unfamiliar emotions, he’d written a new article for that morning’s edition, labeling Pamela Wisher the Angel of Central Park South and painting her death in tragic colors. But the real stroke of genius had been the $100,000 reward for information leading to the murderer. The idea had come to him in the middle of writing the story; he had carried the half-written piece and his reward idea straight into the office of the Post’s new editor, Arnold Murray. The man had loved it, authorizing it on the spot without even bothering to check with the publisher.

Gi

“That’s it?” Smithback asked, crestfallen.

“Well, there was, like, this really weird visitor for you,” the secretary gushed. She was short and ski

“Yeah?”

“He was dressed in rags and he smelled. God, I could hardly breathe. And he was, like, high or something.”

Maybe it’s a hot tip, Smithback thought excitedly. “What did he want?”

“He said he had information about the Wisher murder. He asked you to meet him in the Pe

Smithback almost dropped his drink. “The men’s room? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“That’s what he said. You think he’s a pervert?” She spoke with undisguised relish.

“Which men’s room?”

He heard papers shuffling. “I’ve got it right here. North end, lower level, just to the left of the track 12 escalator. At eight o’clock tonight.”

“What information, exactly?”

“That was all he said.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and checked his watch: seven forty-five. The men’s room in Pe

Smithback had never been inside a men’s room at Pe

He was five minutes late. Probably the guy’s gone already, Smithback thought gratefully. Assuming he’d ever been here in the first place. He was just about to duck back outside when he heard a gravelly voice.

“William Smithback?”

“What?” Smithback looked around quickly, sca

“William Smithback?” the man repeated, peering at him through filmy eyes.

“Who else?”

Without another word, the man turned and moved back toward the rear of the men’s room. He stopped at the open last stall, then turned, waiting.

“You have some information for me?” Smithback asked.

“Come with me.” He gestured back toward the stall.

“No way,” said Smithback. “If you want to talk, we can talk out here, but I’m not going in there with you, pal.”

The man gestured again. “But this is the way to go.”

“Go where?”

“Down.”

Cautiously, Smithback approached the stall. The man had stepped inside and was standing behind the toilet, prying back a large piece of painted sheet metal that, Smithback now saw, covered a ragged hole in the dirty tile wall.

“In there?” Smithback asked.

The man nodded.

“Where does it go?”

“Down,” the man repeated.

“Forget it,” said Smithback. He started to back away.

The man held his gaze. “I’m supposed to bring you to Mephisto,” he said. “He has to talk to you about the murder of that girl. He knows important things.”

“Give me a break.”

The man continued to stare at him. “You can trust me,” he said simply.

Somehow, despite the filth and the drugged eyes, Smithback found himself believing the man. “What things?”

“You have to talk to Mephisto.”

“Who’s this Mephisto?”

“He’s our leader.” The man shrugged as if no other information was necessary.

“Our?”

The man nodded. “The Route 666 community.”

Despite his uncertainty, Smithback felt a tingle of excitement. An organized community underground? That would make good copy all by itself. And if this Mephisto really knew something about the Wisher murder… “Where exactly is this Route 666 community?” he asked.

“Can’t tell you. But I’ll show you the way.”

“And your name?” he asked.

“They call me Tail Gu

“Look,” said Smithback. “I’d follow you, but you can’t expect me to just crawl into a hole like this. I could get ambushed, mugged, anything.”

The man shook his head vehemently. “I’ll protect you. Everyone knows I’m Mephisto’s chief ru

Smithback stared at the man: rheumy eyes, ru

Then the image of Bryce Harriman’s smug face filled his mind. He imagined Bryce’s editor at the Times, asking him again how come that hack Smithback had gotten the story first.

He liked that image.

The man known as Tail Gu

Looking around, Smithback found himself in a long, narrow tu