Reliquary

“This isn’t an essay question,” Rachlin said quietly. “Hurry it up. We’re on a tight schedule here.”

Snow looked up. There was one route he knew of, a very direct route. Well, he thought, they asked for it. “The Lower Hudson Sewage Treatment Plant itself,” he said. “We can go in through the main settling tank.”

There was a silence, and Snow glanced around.

“Dive in goddamn sewage?” a very deep voice said.

The Commander turned. “You heard the man.” He tossed a wet suit toward Snow. “Now get your lovely little behind below and suit up. We’ve got to be clear and at the extraction point by six minutes to midnight.”

= 53 =

MARGO SAT ON the cold tile floor of the armory, inwardly fuming. She wasn’t sure who she was more angry at: D’Agosta, for roping her into this mess to begin with; Pendergast, for refusing to take her along; or herself, for being unable just to let the whole thing drop. But that was something she simply couldn’t do. It was clear to her now just how long a shadow the Museum murders—the terrifying final struggle in the Museum basement—had cast over her. It had robbed her of sleep, fractured her peace of mind. And now this shit, on top of everything else…

She knew Pendergast had been thinking of her safety, but she still could not contain the frustration of being left behind. If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be in the dark, she thought. I made the connection between Mbwun and Whittlesey. I figured out what really happened. With a little more time, she might have even tied up the nagging, perplexing loose ends that still remained: what the rest of Kawakita’s cryptic journal fragments meant, what he’d been doing with the thyoxin, why he’d been synthesizing Vitamin D at his final laboratory.

Actually, the thyoxin made sense. The journal entries implied that, near the end, Kawakita had had a change of heart. Apparently, he’d realized his latest strains of glaze no longer twisted the body, but instead twisted the mind. Maybe he’d even learned of the environmental dangers posed by saltwater coming in contact with the plants. In any case, it seemed clear he’d decided to undo what he’d done, and rid the reservoir of Liliceae Mbwunensis. Perhaps the creatures themselves had learned of his intention. That could explain his death: obviously, the last thing they wanted was somebody meddling with their supply. But that still didn’t explain what the hell he’d been doing with vitamin D. Could it have been necessary for the genetic sequencing? No, that wasn’t possible…

Suddenly, Margo sat up, drawing in her breath sharply. He was planning to kill off the plants, I’m sure of it, she thought. And he knew that put him in terrible danger. So the vitamin D wasn’t for glaze production. It was for…

Suddenly, she understood.

In an instant, she scrambled to her feet. There wasn’t a moment to lose. Galvanized into action, she began yanking open locker drawers, spilling the contents into the narrow corridor, hastily grabbing at the items she needed, stuffing them into her carryall: oxygen mask, night-vision goggles, boxes of 9-millimeter hollow-point rounds for her semiautomatic pistol.

Breathing heavily, she ran to the door of the armory and looked out into the larger storage area. It’s got to be around here somewhere, she thought. She began running along the rows of wooden cabinets, quickly scanning their Formica labels. Stopping abruptly, she opened one of the cabinets and took out three empty one-liter bottles equipped with sports-style squeeze caps. Placing them on the floor along with her carryall, she opened another cabinet and pulled out several gallon containers of distilled water. Then she ran down the rows, searching once again, muttering under her breath. Finally, she stopped and yanked open another cabinet door. It was filled with rows of jars containing pills and tablets. She feverishly scanned the labels, found what she wanted, and raced back to her carryall.

Kneeling, she opened the jars and upended them, making a small mountain of white pills on the tiled floor. “What’s the concentration, Greg?” she found herself saying out loud. No way of knowing: I’ll have to guess high. Using the bottom of one of the jars, she smashed the pills to powder, then scooped several handfuls into each of the liter bottles. She topped off the bottles with water, shook them vigorously, checked the suspension: a little coarse, perhaps, but there was no time for anything better. It would soon dissolve.

She stood up and grabbed her carryall, scattering the empty bottles noisily down the corridor.

“Who’s there?” came a voice. Too late, she realized she’d forgotten about the guard on duty outside. Quickly, she stuffed the bottles into her carryall and slung it over her shoulder as she headed for the exit.

“Sorry,” she said. “Daydreaming.” She hoped she sounded sincere.

The guard frowned, putting his magazine aside. He began to stand up.

“Which way did Agent Pendergast go again?” she said hurriedly. “He mentioned something about C section.”

Mentioning Pendergast’s name had the desired effect; the guard sat back down in his chair. “Take Elevator Bank Four up two flights and make a left,” he said.

Margo thanked him and hurried to the wall of elevators at the end of the corridor. She checked her watch as the doors closed, then cursed: no time. Savagely, she punched the button for the lobby. As the door opened, she gathered herself for a sprint. Then, noticing the numerous guards, she settled for walking quickly across the lobby, turning in her visitor’s pass, and stepping out into the humid Manhattan night.

Outside, she sprinted toward the curb and the nearest taxi. “Fifty-ninth and Lex,” she said, jumping in and slamming the door behind her.

“Okay, but it ain’t gonna be a fast ride,” the cabbie said. “There’s some kind of march or riot or something going on near the Park; traffic’s snarled up tighter than the hairs in a dog’s asshole.”

“Then do something about it,” Margo said, tossing a twenty into the front seat.

The driver raced east, then swung north on First Avenue, dodging traffic at a breakneck pace. They made it as far as 47th Street before lurching to a stop. Ahead, Margo could see a veritable parking lot of cars and trucks, engines idling and horns blaring, six parallel lines of brake lights stretching unbroken down the dark thoroughfare. In