“Sorry, sir. It was a loud noise, and I heard a lot of screaming and running in the exhibition and I thought —”
“For this, Waters, you’re dead. I’m gonna have your ass roasted and sliced up like luncheon meat on a platter. Think about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside there was a cough, sputter, and a roar as a large portable generator started up. The rear door to the Mobile Command Unit opened and several agents ducked in, their suits dripping. “The rest are on their way, sir,” one of them said.
“Okay. Tell them we’re having a crisis-control meeting here in the MCU in five minutes.”
He stepped out into the rain. Emergency services workers were moving bulky equipment and yellow acetylene tanks up the Museum steps.
Coffey ran back through the rain and up the steps into the debris-laden Rotunda. Medics clustered at the metal [347] emergency door blocking the east entrance to the Hall of the Heavens. Coffey could hear the whine of a bone saw.
“Tell me what you’ve got,” Coffey asked the leader of the medical team.
The doctor’s eyes looked strained above his blood-flecked mask. “I don’t know the full extent of the injuries yet, but we’ve got several criticals here. We’re performing some field amputations. I think a few others might be saved if you can get this door open in the next half hour.”
Coffey shook his head. “Doesn’t look like that will happen. We’re gonna have to cut through it.”
An emergency worker spoke up. “We’ve got some heat-proof blankets we can lay across these people as we work.”
Coffey stepped back and raised his radio. “D’Agosta! Ippolito! Come in!”
Silence. Then, he heard a hiss of static.
“D’Agosta here,” came the tense voice. “Listen, Coffey—”
“Where have you been? I told you—”
“Shut up and listen, Coffey. You were making too much noise, I had to shut you off. We’re on our way to the subbasement. There’s a creature loose somewhere in Cell Two. I’m not kidding you, Coffey, it’s a fucking
“A
“Yeah? Well, they’d better have some heavy shit ready if they plan on meeting up with this thing.”
“D’Agosta, let me handle it. What’s this about Ippolito?”
“He’s dead, slashed open, just like all the other stiffs.”
“And a monster did this. Okay, sure. Any other police officers with you, D’Agosta?”
[348] “Yeah, there’s Bailey.”
“I’m relieving you of duty. Put Bailey on.”
“Fuck you. Here’s Bailey.”
“Sergeant,” Coffey barked, “You’re in charge now. What’s the situation?”
“Mr. Coffey, he’s right. We had to leave the Hall of the Heavens. We went down the back stairwell near the service area. There’s over thirty of us, including the Mayor. No shit, there’s really something in here.”
“Give me a break, Bailey. Did you see it?”
“I’m not sure what I saw, sir, but D’Agosta saw it, and Jesus, sir, you should see what it did to Ippolito—”
“Listen to me, Bailey. Are you gonna calm down and take over?”
“No sir. As far as I’m concerned, he’s in charge.”
“I just put
Coffey snorted and looked up, enraged. “The son of a bitch just cut me off.”
Outside in the rain, Greg Kawakita stood motionless amid a cacophony of yelling, sobbing, and cursing. He remained oblivious to the pelting rain that plastered his black hair to his forehead; the emergency vehicles that passed by, sirens shrieking; the panicky guests that jostled him as they ran past. Again and again he replayed in his mind what Margo and Frock had barked at him. He opened and closed his mouth, moved forward as if to reenter the Museum. Then, slowly, he turned, pulled his sodden tuxedo closer around his narrow shoulders, and walked thoughtfully into the darkness.
= 50 =
Margo jumped as a second gunshot echoed down the hall.
“What’s happening?” she cried. In the darkness, she felt Frock’s grip tighten.
Outside, they heard running steps. Then the yellow glow of a flashlight streaked by beneath the doorframe.
