Cuthbert opened the filing cabinet and started fumbling in the dark. “Nothing,” he said at last. “We can’t waste bullets on that window. I’ve only got five shots in here.”
[371] “Nothing, nothing, nothing. Didn’t King Lear say that?”
Cuthbert sighed heavily and sat down. Silence filled the room once again, save only the wind and rain, and the distant roll of thunder.
Pendergast lowered the radio and turned toward Margo. “D’Agosta’s in trouble. We’ve got to move fast.”
“Leave me behind,” said Frock quietly. “I’m just going to slow you down.”
“A gallant gesture,” Pendergast told him. “But we need your brains.”
He moved slowly out into the hall, sweeping his light in both directions. Then he signaled all clear. They moved down the hall, Margo pushing the wheelchair before her as quickly as possible.
As they threaded their way, Frock would occasionally whisper a few words of direction. Pendergast stopped at every intersection, gun drawn. Frequently, he halted to listen and smell the air. After a few minutes, he took the chair’s handlebars from an unprotesting Margo. Then they rounded a corner, and the door of the Secure Area stood before them.
For the hundredth time, Margo prayed silently that her plan would work; that she wasn’t simply condemning all of them—including the group trapped in the subbasement—to a horrible death.
“Third on the right!” Frock called as they moved inside the Secure Area. “Margo, do you remember the combination?”
She dialed, pulled the lever, and the door swung open. Pendergast strode over and knelt beside the smaller crate.
“Wait,” said Margo.
Pendergast stopped, eyebrows raised quizzically.
“Don’t let the smell of it get onto you,” she said. “Bundle the fibers in your jacket.”
Pendergast hesitated.
[372] “Here,” Frock said. “Use my handkerchief to remove them.”
Pendergast inspected it. “Well,” he said ruefully, “if the Professor here can donate a hundred-dollar handkerchief, I suppose I can donate my jacket.” He took the radio and notebook, stuffed them into the waistband of his pants, then removed his suit jacket.
“Since when did FBI agents start wearing handtailored Armani suits?” Margo asked jokingly.
“Since when did graduate students in ethnopharmacology start appreciating them?” Pendergast replied, spreading the jacket carefully on the floor. Then, gingerly, he scooped out several fistfuls of fiber and laid them carefully across his open jacket. Finally, he stuffed the handkerchief into one of the sleeves, folded the garment, and tied the sleeves together.
“We’ll need a rope to drag it with,” said Margo.
“I see some packing cord around the far crate,” Frock pointed out.
Pendergast tied the jacket and fashioned a harness, then dragged the bundle across the floor.
“Seems to be snug,” he said. “Pity, though, that they haven’t dusted these floors in a while.” He turned to Margo. “Will this leave enough of a scent for the creature to follow?”
Frock nodded vigorously. “The Extrapolator estimates the creature’s sense of smell to be exponentially keener than ours. It was able to trace the crates to this vault, remember.”
“And you’re sure the—er—meals it’s already had this evening won’t satiate it?”
“Mr. Pendergast, the human hormone is a poor substitute. We believe the beast
“Let’s get started, then,” said Pendergast. He lifted the bundle gingerly. “The alternate access to the subbasement is several hundred yards from here. If you’re [373] right, we’re at our most vulnerable from now on. The creature will home in on us.”
Pushing the wheelchair, Margo followed the agent into the corridor. He shut the door, then the three moved quickly down the hall, back into the silence of the Old Basement.
= 53 =
D’Agosta moved forward, crouching low in the water, his revolver nosing ahead into the inky darkness. He had turned off his flashlight to avoid betraying his position. The water flowed briskly between his thighs, its smell of algae and lime mixing with the fetid reek of the creature.
“Bailey, you up there?” he whispered into the gloom.
“Yeah,” came Bailey’s voice. “I’m waiting at the first fork.”
“You’ve got more rounds than I. If we drive off this motherfucker, I want you to stand guard while I go behind and try shooting off the lock.”
“Roger.”
D’Agosta started toward Bailey, his legs numbing in the frigid water. Suddenly, there was a confusion of sounds
