Reliquary

“Our intention is to avoid any encounters,” Pendergast said.

“But you sure aren’t taking any chances, with all those weapons you’re toting,” Margo replied. “Bullets may hurt them. But this”—she gestured at her pack—“gets them where they live.”

Pendergast sighed. “Very well, Dr. Green,” he said. “Pass it over. We’ll divide the bottles among ourselves.”

“No way,” Margo said. “I carry the bottles. And I come along.”

“Another train’s coming,” Mephisto interjected.

Pendergast was silent a moment. “I already explained that it’s not—”

“I’ve come this far!” Margo said, hearing the anger and determination in her own words as she spoke. “There’s no way in hell I’m going back now. And don’t tell me again how dangerous it is. You want me to sign something indemnifying the authorities in case I scratch myself? Fine. Pass it over.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Pendergast sighed deeply “Very well, Dr. Green. We can’t waste any more time arguing. Mephisto, take us below.”

= 54 =

SMITHBACK FROZE IN the tunnel, listening. There were the footsteps again, seemingly more distant this time. He breathed deeply several times, swallowing hard, trying to force his heart back down out of his throat. In the dark, he’d lost his way in the narrow passages. He was no longer even sure he was moving in the right direction. For all he knew, he’d turned himself around completely and was heading back toward the killers, whoever or whatever they were. Yet instinct told him he was still heading away from the scene of horrible butchery. The slick-walled passages still seemed to lead in only one direction: down.

The hideous creatures he had seen were the Wrinklers, he was sure of that. The ones Mephisto had been raving about, maybe the ones that had killed all those people in the subway. Wrinklers. In the space of a few minutes, they’d killed at least four men… Waxie’s screams seemed to echo and reecho in his ears until he wasn’t sure what was real and what was merely memory.

Then another, very real, sound intruded into his thoughts: the footsteps again, and very close. He twisted around in panic, looking for a place to run. Suddenly there was a bright light in his eyes, and behind it a figure loomed toward him. Smithback tensed for a fight he hoped would be mercifully short.

But then the figure shrank back, squealing in terror. The flashlight dropped to the floor and came rattling toward Smithback. With a flood of relief, the journalist recognized the bushy mustache belonging to Duffy, the fellow who’d been straggling up the ladder behind Waxie. He must have eluded his pursuers, God only knew how.

“Calm down!” Smithback whispered, grabbing the flashlight before it rolled away. “I’m a journalist; I saw it all happen.”

Duffy was too frightened, or winded, to ask what Smithback was doing underneath the Central Park Reservoir. He sat on the brick floor of the tunnel, his sides heaving. Every few seconds he took a quick look into the blackness behind him.

“Know how to get out of here?” Smithback prodded.

“No,” Duffy gasped. “Maybe. Come on, help me up.”

“Name’s Bill Smithback,” Smithback whispered, reaching down and hoisting the trembling engineer to his feet.

“Stan Duffy,” the engineer hiccuped.

“How’d you get away from those things?”

“I lost them back there in the overflow shunts,” Duffy said. A large tear rolled slowly down his mud-streaked face.

“How come these tunnels only lead down, and not up?”

Duffy dabbed absently at his eyes with one sleeve. “We’re in the secondary flow tunnels. In an emergency, water runs down both the main tube and these secondary tubes, right to the Bottleneck. It’s a closed system. Everything around here has to go through the Bottleneck.” He stopped, and his eyes widened, as if remembering something. Then he glanced at his watch. “We have to go!” he said. “We’ve got just ninety minutes!”

“Ninety minutes? Until what?” Smithback asked, playing the light ahead of them down the tunnel.

“The Reservoir’s going to drain at midnight; there’s no stopping it now. And when it does, it’s going right down these tunnels.”

“What?” Smithback breathed.

“They’re trying to flush out the lowest levels, the Astor Tunnels, to get rid of the creatures. Or they were, anyway. Now they want to change their minds. But it’s too late—”

“The Astor Tunnels?” Smithback asked. Must be that Devil’s Attic Mephisto was talking about.

Duffy suddenly grabbed the flashlight and started running down the tunnel.

Smithback took off after him. The passage joined a larger one which continued downward, spiraling like a gigantic corkscrew. There was no light save for the wildly flailing beam of the flashlight. He tried to stay to the sides of the curving tunnel floor, avoiding the standing water that ran along its bottom. Though he wasn’t sure why he bothered; Duffy was splashing straight down the center, making enough noise to raise the dead.

Moments later, Duffy stopped. “I heard them!” he shrieked as Smithback appeared by his side.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Smithback panted, looking around.

But Duffy was running again, and Smithback followed, panic ripping his heart, thoughts of a big story forgotten.