pasterns, knees. You basically shatter as many bones as you can until it can’t move forward.”
“I see,” said Frock.
[388] “There is only one problem with this approach,” said Pendergast.
“And that is-—?”
“You must be a consummate marksman. Placement is everything. You’ve got to remain serenely calm and steady, unbreathing, firing between heartbeats—in the face of a charging beast. We each had time for four shots. I made the mistake of aiming for the chest and scored two direct hits before I realized the bullets were just burying themselves in muscle. Then I aimed for the legs. One shot missed and the other grazed but didn’t break the bone.” He shook his head. “A poor performance, I’m afraid.”
“So what happened?” Frock asked.
“My wife scored direct hits on three out of her four shots. She shattered both front cannons and broke the upper foreleg as well. The buffalo tumbled head over heels and came to rest a few yards from where we were kneeling. It was still very much alive but it couldn’t move. So I ‘paid the insurance,’ as a professional hunter would put it.”
“I wish your wife was here,” Frock said.
Pendergast was quiet. “So do I,” he said at length.
Silence returned to the room.
“Very well,” Frock said at last. “I understand the problem. The beast has some unusual qualities that you should know about, if you are planning to, ah, break it down. First, the hind quarters are most likely covered in bony plates or scales. I doubt if you could penetrate them effectively with your gun. They armor the upper and lower leg, down to the metatarsal bones, I’d estimate.”
“I see.”
“You will have to shoot low, aim for the phalanx prima or secunda.”
“The lowest bones of the leg,” said Pendergast.
“Yes. They would be equivalent to the pasterns on a horse. Aim just below the lower joint. In fact, the joint itself might be vulnerable.”
[389] “That’s a difficult shot,” said Pendergast. “Virtually impossible if the creature is facing me.”
There was a short silence. Margo continued her vigil through the peephole, but saw nothing.
“I believe the anterior limbs of the creature are more vulnerable,” Frock continued. “The Extrapolator described them as being less robust. The metacarpals and the carpals should both be vulnerable to a direct hit.”
“The front knee and the lower leg,” Pendergast said, nodding. “The shots you’ve described already are hardly garden variety. To what extent would the creature have to be broken down to immobilize it?”
“Difficult to say. Both front legs and at least one rear leg, I’m afraid. Even then, it could crawl.” Frock coughed. “Can you do it?”
“To have a chance, I’d need at least a hundred and fifty feet of shooting space if the creature were charging. Ideally, I’d get the first shot in before the creature knew what was happening. That would slow it down.”
Frock thought for a moment. “The Museum contains several straight, long corridors, three or four hundred feet long. Unfortunately, most of them are now cut in half by these damned security doors. I believe that there’s at least one unobstructed corridor within Cell Two, however. On the first floor, in Section Eighteen, around the corner from the Computer Room.”
Pendergast nodded. “I’ll remember that,” he said. “In case this plan fails.”
“I hear something!” Margo hissed.
They fell silent. Pendergast moved closer to the door.
“A shadow just passed across the light at the end of the hall,” she whispered.
There was another long silence.
“It’s here,” Margo breathed, “I can see it.” Then, even softer: “Oh, my God.”
Pendergast murmured in Margo’s ear: “Move away from the door!”
[390] She backed up, hardly daring to breathe. “What’s it doing?” she whispered.
“It’s stopped at the door to the Secure Area,” Pendergast replied quietly. “It went in for a moment, and then backed out very fast. It’s looking around, smelling the air.”
“What does it look like?” Frock asked, an urgency in his voice.
Pendergast hesitated a moment before answering. “I’ve got a better view of it this time. It’s big, it’s massive. Wait, it’s turning this way ... Good Lord, it’s a horrible sight, it’s ... Flattened face, small red eyes. Thin fur on the upper body. Just like the figurine. Hold on ... Hold on a minute ... it’s coming this way.”
Margo suddenly realized she had moved back to the far wall. A snuffling sound came through the door. And then the rank, fetid smell. She slid to the floor in the heavy darkness, the peephole in the cardboard wavering like a star. Pendergast’s flashlight shone feebly.
And then a shadow fell over the peephole and everything went black.
There was a soft muffled thud against the door, and the old wood creaked. The doorknob rattled. There was a long silence, the sound of something heavy moving outside, and a sharp cracking as the creature pressed against the door.
The voice inside Margo’s head suddenly became audible.
