No answer in the next storage room, either.
“One more try,” Frock said. “Over there, across the hall.”
Margo stopped at the indicated door, marked [327] PLEISTOCENE—12B, noting as she did so a stairwell door at the far end of the hall. She was pushing open the storage room door as the lights flickered a second time.
“This is—” she began.
Suddenly, a sharp explosion resounded down the narrow hall. Margo looked up, heart pounding, trying to locate the source of the noise. It seemed to have come from around a corner they had not yet explored.
Then the lights went out.
“If we wait a moment,” Frock said finally, “the emergency backup system will come on.”
Only the faint creaking of the building pierced the silence. The seconds stretched into a minute, two minutes.
Then Margo noticed a strange smell, goatish, fetid, almost rank. With a sob of despair, she remembered where she had smelled it once before: in the darkened exhibition.
“Do you—?” she whispered.
“Yes,” hissed Frock. “Get inside and lock the door.”
Breathing fast, Margo groped at the doorframe. She called out quietly as the smell grew stronger. “Dr. Frock? Can you follow the sound of my voice?”
“There’s no time for that,” came his whisper. “Please, forget about me and get inside.”
“No,” said Margo. “Just come toward me slowly.”
She heard his chair rattle. The smell was growing overpowering, the earthy, rotting odor of a swamp, mixed with the sweet smell of warm raw hamburger. Margo heard a wet snuffling.
“I’m right here,” she whispered to Frock. “Oh, hurry, please.”
The darkness seemed oppressive, a suffocating weight. She cringed against the doorframe, flattening herself to the wall, fighting down an urge to flee.
In the pitch black, wheels rattled and the chair bumped gently against her leg. She grabbed its handles and pulled Frock inside. Turning, she slammed the door [328] closed, locked it, and then sank to the floor, her body rocked by noiseless sobs. Silence filled the room. There was a scraping on the door, soft at first, then louder and more insistent. Margo shrank away, banging her shoulder against the frame of the wheelchair. In the dark, she felt Frock gently take her hand.
= 48 =
D’Agosta sat up amid the broken glass, grabbed for his radio, and watched the retreating backs of the last guests, their screams and shouts fading.
“Lieutenant?” One of his officers, Bailey, was getting up from underneath another broken case. The Hall was a shambles: artifacts broken and scattered across the floor; broken glass everywhere; shoes, purses, pieces of clothing. Everybody had left the gallery except D’Agosta, Bailey, and the dead man. D’Agosta looked briefly at the headless body, registering the gaping wounds in the chest, the clothing stiffened by dried blood, the man’s insides generously exposed like so much stuffing. Dead for some time, apparently. He looked away, then looked back quickly. The man was wearing a policeman’s uniform.
“Bailey!” he shouted. “Officer down! Who is this man?”
Bailey came over, his face pale in the dim light. [330] “Hard to say. But I think Fred Beauregard had a big old Academy ring like that.”
“No
Bailey nodded. “That’s Beauregard, Loo.”
“Christ!” D’Agosta said, straightening up. “Wasn’t he on his forty-eight?”
“That’s correct. Last tour was Wednesday afternoon.”
“Then he’s been in here since—” D’Agosta started. His face hardened into a scowl. “That fucking Coffey, refusing to sweep the exhibition. I’m gonna tear him a new asshole.”
Bailey helped him up. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll bind it up later,” D’Agosta said tersely. “Where’s McNitt?”
“I don’t know. Last I looked, he was caught in the crowd.”
Ippolito stepped from around the far corner, talking into his radio. D’Agosta’s respect for the Security Director went up a notch.
The lights dimmed.
“There’s panic in the Hall of the Heavens,” said Ippolito, ear at his radio. “They say the security wall is coming down.”
“Those idiots! That’s the only exit!” He raised his own radio. “Walden! You copy? What’s going on?”
