“You’ve had enough,” said Cuthbert.
“You and your damned Anglican moralizing.” He lurched to his feet and headed for the cabinet with a slightly unsteady gait.
In the stairwell, D’Agosta looked toward the dim figure of Bailey.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re in charge, Loo.” Below them, the large group of guests was waiting, [360] huddled together on the steps, sniffling and sobbing. D’Agosta turned to face them.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ve got to move fast. The next landing down has a door leading into the basement. We’re going to go through it and meet up with some others who know a way out of here. Everybody understand?”
“We understand,” came a voice that D’Agosta recognized as the Mayor’s.
“Good,” D’Agosta nodded. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll get to the front and lead the way with my light. Bailey, you cover our rear. Let me know if you see anything.”
Slowly, the group descended. On the landing, D’Agosta waited until Bailey gave him the all-clear sign. Then he grabbed the door handle.
It didn’t budge.
D’Agosta gave it another yank, harder this time. No luck.
“What the-—?” He brought his flashlight to bear on the handle. “Shit,” he muttered. Then, in a louder tone, he said, “Everybody stay where you are for a moment, be as quiet as possible. I’m going up to talk to my officer at the rear.” He retraced his steps.
“Listen, Bailey,” he told him softly, “we can’t get into the basement. Some of our shells ripped into the door and they’ve bent the jamb all to hell. There’s no way we can get the thing open without a crowbar.”
Even in the dark he could see Bailey’s eyes widen. “So what are we gonna do?” the sergeant asked. “Go back upstairs?”
“Let me think a minute,” D’Agosta said. “How much ammo do you have? I’ve got six rounds in my service piece.”
“I don’t know. Fifteen, sixteen rounds, maybe.”
“Damn,” D’Agosta said, “I don’t think—”
He stopped, abruptly shutting off his flashlight and listening to the close darkness. A slight movement of air down the stairwell brought a ripe, goatish smell.
[361] Bailey dropped to one knee, aiming the shotgun up the staircase. D’Agosta quickly turned to the group waiting below him. “Everybody,” he hissed, “down to the next landing. Quick!”
There was a series of low murmurs. “We can’t go down there!” somebody cried. “We’ll be trapped underground!”
D’Agosta’s response was drowned by the blast of Bailey’s shotgun. “The Museum Beast!” somebody screamed, and the group turned, stumbling and falling down the stairs. “Bailey!” D’Agosta shouted, his ears ringing from the blast. “Bailey, follow me!”
Walking backward down the stairs, one hand holding his handgun, the other feeling its way against the wall, D’Agosta noticed the surface of the stairwell turn to damp stone as he moved below the level of the basement. Farther up the stairwell, he could see the dim form of Bailey following, gasping and cursing under his breath. After what seemed an eternity, D’Agosta’s foot hit the subbasement landing. All around him, people held their breaths; then Bailey bumped into him gently.
“Bailey, what the fuck was it?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” came the response. “There was that horrible smell, then I thought I saw something. Two red eyes in the dark. I fired.”
D’Agosta shone his flashlight up the stairwell. The light showed only shadows and rough-hewn yellow rock, crudely carved. The smell lingered.
He shone the flashlight toward the group, and did a quick head count. Thirty-eight, including himself and Bailey. “Okay,” he whispered to the group. “We’re in the subbasement. I’m gonna go in first, then you follow at my signal.”
He turned and shined his light over the door.
“Listen, everybody,” he called. “There’s running water down here, about three inches deep. Come forward one at a time, quickly but carefully. There are two steps down on the far side of the door. Bailey, take up the rear. And, for God’s sake, close the door behind you.”
Pendergast counted the remaining bullets, pocketed them, then looked in Frock’s direction. “Truly fascinating. And a clever bit of detection on your part. I’m sorry I doubted you, Professor.”
Frock gestured magnanimously. “How were you to know?” he asked. “Besides, it was Margo here who discovered the most important link. If she hadn’t tested those packing fibers, we never would have known.”
Pendergast nodded at Margo, huddled on top of a large wooden crate. “Brilliant work,” he said. “We could use you in the Baton Rouge crime lab.”
“Assuming I let her go,” Frock said. “And assuming we get out of here alive. Dubious assumptions, at best.”
“And assuming I’m willing to leave the Museum,” Margo said, surprising even herself.
Pendergast turned to Margo. “I know you understand this creature better than I do. Still, do you truly believe
