He clambered to his feet, brushing the mud from his clothes and checking his shotgun. “How long has the killer been living down here?” he asked, staring at the track in disbelief.
“Fifty-one years this September,” said Pendergast. Already, he was moving again, following the trail down the narrow corridor.
“So you
“Yes.”
“And just how the heck did you figure
“Officer Weeks, shall we save the colloquy for later?”
Pendergast flew down the passageway. The crying had stopped, but now the FBI agent seemed sure of the way . . .
And then, quite suddenly, they came to a standstill. Ahead, a huge curtain of crystallized gypsum flowed from a rend in the ceiling, completely blocking the passageway. Pendergast shone his light onto the floor of the passage, and Weeks noticed that the heavy track had disappeared. “No time,” Pendergast murmured to himself, angling his light back down the tunnel, up over the walls and ceiling. “No time.”
Then he took a few steps back from the curtain of gypsum. He seemed to be counting under his breath. Weeks frowned: maybe he’d been right the first time and Pendergast wasn’t such a good choice to be tagging along with, after all.
Then the agent paused, moved his head close to the wall, and called out, “Miss Swanson?”
To Weeks’s surprise, there was a faint gasp, a sob, and then a muffled shout: “Pendergast? Agent Pendergast? Oh, God—”
“Be calm. We’re coming to get you. Is
“No. He left . . . I don’t know how long ago. Hours.”
Pendergast turned to Weeks. “Now’s your chance to be useful.” He moved back to the curtain of gypsum, pointed. “Direct a shotgun blast at this spot, please.”
“Won’t he hear?” said Weeks.
“He’s already close.
Pendergast spoke with such command that Weeks jumped. “Yes, sir!” He crouched, aimed, and pulled both triggers.
The blast was deafening in the enclosed space. Pendergast’s light exposed a pall of glittering gypsum dust and, beyond, a great hole in the diaphanous stone. For a moment, nothing further happened. And then the curtain broke apart with a great crack, dropping to the floor and sending glittering crystal shards skidding everywhere. Beyond was another passageway, and beside it the narrow dark mouth of a pit. Pendergast rushed to the edge and shone his light within. Weeks came up behind and peered cautiously over his shoulder.
There, at the bottom, he saw a filthy girl with purple hair, staring up with a muddy, blood-smeared, terrified face.
Pendergast turned to look at him. “You’re the dog-handler. You must have a spare leash in your pack.”
“Yes—”
He found himself, in one swift movement, relieved of his pack. Pendergast reached inside and pulled out the spare, a length of chain with a leather strap. Then he fixed the chain end around the base of a limestone column and threw the other end into the pit.
From below came the clank of the chain, the sobbing of the girl.
Weeks peered over again. “It doesn’t reach,” he said.
Pendergast ignored this. “Cover us. If
“Now, wait just a minute—”
But Pendergast had already disappeared over the edge. Weeks hovered at the top, one eye on the passageway and the other on the pit. The FBI agent clambered down the chain with remarkable agility, and when he reached the end he hung from it, free arm down, offering the girl his hand. She reached for it, swiped, missed.
“Stand aside, Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said to the girl. “Weeks, nudge some of those boulders into the pit. Try not to brain one of us. And keep a careful eye on that tunnel.”
With his foot, Weeks pushed half a dozen large rocks over the lip of the pit. Then he watched as the girl, who understood immediately, stacked them against the wall and clambered to the top. Now Pendergast was able to grab her hand. He hoisted her upward, planted his free arm beneath her shoulders, brought the hand back to the chain, and slowly climbed up the stone face. Pendergast looked scrawny enough, but the strength it took to climb up that chain while carrying another person was remarkable.
They emerged from the pit and the girl immediately fell to her knees, clinging to Pendergast, sobbing violently.
Pendergast knelt beside her. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he gently wiped the blood and dirt from the girl’s face. Then he examined her wrists and hands. “Do they hurt?” he asked.
“Not now. I’m so glad you came. I thought . . . I thought—” The rest of the sentence was lost in a sob.
He took her hands. “Corrie? I know what you thought. You’ve been very brave. But it’s not over yet and I need your help.” He spoke gently but rapidly, in a low, urgent whisper.
She fell silent, nodded.
“Can you walk?”
She nodded, then broke into a sob once again. “He was
