“Very curious,” Pendergast said. “Perhaps we need to sum up what we know so far.” He paused a moment, poised to tick off the items on his slender fingers. “Kawakita refined the drug known as glaze, tested it on others, then used an improved version on himself. The unfortunate users, deformed by the drug and increasingly shy of light, went underground. Growing feral, they began preying on the subterranean homeless. Now, in the wake of Kawakita’s death and loss of the glaze supply, their predations have become bolder.”
“And we know Kawakita’s own motive for taking the drug,” Margo said. “The drug seems to have a rejuvenating ability, even the ability to extend one’s lifespan. The underground creatures were given an earlier version of the drug he gave himself. And it seems he continued to perfect the drug even
“But that still leaves three questions,” D’Agosta said suddenly.
They turned to look at him.
“First, why did these things kill him? Because it sure seems obvious to me that’s what happened.”
“Perhaps they were growing ungovernable,” Pendergast said.
“Or they became hostile to him, seeing him as the cause of their troubles,” Margo added. “Or perhaps there was a power play between him and one of the creatures. Remember what he wrote in his notebook: ‘The other one grows more eager by the day.’ ”
“Second, what about that other mention in his notebook: the herbicide, thyoxin? That doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. Or the vitamin D you said he was synthesizing?”
“And don’t forget Kawakita also wrote the word
“And that might account for the remorse he seemed to show in his notebook,” Margo said. “Apparently, he concentrated on ridding the drug of its physical changes. But in the process, he ignored what his new strain might do to the mind.”
“Third, and last,” D’Agosta continued, “what the hell was the point of rebuilding this hut of skulls mentioned in Whittlesey’s journal?”
At this, everyone was silent.
At last, Pendergast sighed. “You’re right, Vincent. I find the purpose of that hut incomprehensible. As incomprehensible as the odd pieces of metal I found on its offering table.” Pendergast removed the small items from his jacket pocket and spread them on Margo’s worktable. D’Agosta picked them up immediately, examining them closely. “Could they just be pieces of garbage?” he asked. Pendergast shook his head. “They were carefully, even lovingly arranged,” he said. “Like relics in a reliquary.”
“A what?”
“A reliquary. Something used to display revered objects.”
“Well, they don’t look reverential to me. They look like the pieces to a dashboard. Or some appliance, maybe.” D’Agosta turned to Margo. “Any ideas?”
Margo stood up from the computer terminal and walked over to the worktable. She picked up a piece, studied it a moment, then put it down. “This could be anything,” she said, picking up another, a tube of metal with one end encased in gray rubber.
“Anything,” Pendergast agreed. “But I sense, Dr. Green, that when we know what they are—and why they were lying enshrined on a stone platform, thirty stories below New York City—we’ll have the key to this puzzle.”
HAYWARD SHOULDERED the riot gear, adjusted the lantern visor strapped around her head, and glanced across the mass of blue milling around the lower concourse of the 59th Street station. She was supposed to find Squad Five, led by a Lieutenant Miller, but the vast space was in chaos, everyone trying to find everyone else and consequently finding nobody.
She saw Chief Horlocker arrive, fresh from mustering the squads that were assembling at the 81st Street station under the Museum. Horlocker took up a position on the far side of the concourse next to Tactical Head Jack Masters, a thin, sour-looking man. Master’s long arms, which usually hung down by his side like an ape’s, were now gyrating as he talked to a group of lieutenants, slapping a series of maps, tracing out imaginary lines. Horlocker stood by, nodding, holding a pointing device like a swagger stick, occasionally tapping it on the map to emphasize a particularly salient point. As Hayward watched, Horlocker dismissed the lieutenants and Masters picked up a bullhorn.
“Attention!” he barked in a rasping voice. “Are the squads assembled?” It reminded Hayward of Girl Scout camp.
A rumbling murmur that might have been “No” arose.
“Squad One here, then,” Masters said, pointing toward the front. “Squad Two, assemble at the downtown level.” He continued through the squads, assigning them various sections of the concourse. Hayward headed for the Squad Five assembly point. As she arrived, Lieutenant Miller was spreading out a large diagram of his own squad’s area of responsibility shaded in blue. Miller was wearing a light gray assault uniform whose loose folds could not conceal a generous load of adipose tissue.
“I don’t want no heroics, no confrontations,” Miller was saying. “Okay? It’s basically a traffic cop assignment, nothing fancy. If there’s any resistance, you’ve got your mask and your tear gas. Don’t fart around; show them you mean business. But I don’t expect any trouble. Do your job right, and we’ll be out of here in an hour.”
Hayward opened her mouth, then restrained herself. It seemed to her that using tear gas in underground tunnels might be a little tricky. Once, years before the Transit Police merged with the regular force, someone at headquarters had suggested using gas to quell a disturbance. The rank and file almost revolted. Tear gas was bad enough on the surface, but it was murderous below ground. And she could see that their detail covered the deeper subway and maintenance tunnels beneath Columbus Circle station.
