Reliquary (22 page)

Mephisto’s eyes narrowed. “Odd,” he said. “He’s my counterpart, leader of the communities beneath Grand Central.”

“Perhaps some day we shall meet,” Pendergast said. “For now, I need to take word back, reassurances for my people. What can you tell me about the killings and the killers?”

“They started almost a year ago,” Mephisto replied in a silky hiss. “First was Joe Atcitty. We found his body dumped outside the Blockhouse, head gone. Next, Dark Annie disappeared. Then Master Sergeant. It went on and on. Some we found. Most we didn’t. Later, we got word from the Manders that deep activity had been detected.”

Pendergast frowned. “Manders?”

Again, Mephisto shot a suspicious glance toward him. “Never heard of the Manders?” He cackled. “You ought to stretch your legs more, get out, see the neighborhood,
Mayor
Whitey. The Manders live below us. Never come up, never use lights. Like salamanders.
Versteht?
They said there were signs of movement
below
them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They said the Devil’s Attic had been colonized.”

D’Agosta looked questioningly at Pendergast. But the FBI agent merely nodded. “The lowest level of the city,” he said, as if to himself.

“The very lowest,” Mephisto replied.

“Have you been down there?” Pendergast asked with de-liberate casualness.

Mephisto flashed him a look as if to imply even he wasn’t that crazy.

“But you think these people are behind the killings?”

“I don’t think it. I
know
it. They’re beneath us, right now.” Mephisto smiled grimly. “But I’m not sure I’d use the word
people
.”

“What do you mean?” Pendergast said, the casualness gone from his voice.

“Rumor,” Mephisto said very quietly. “They say they’re called Wrinklers for a reason.”

“Which is--?”

Mephisto did not answer.

Pendergast sat back on his crate. “So what can we do?”

“What can we do?” The smile vanished from Mephisto’s face. “We can wake up this city, that’s what we can do! We can show them that it won’t just be the mole people, the invisible people, who die!”

“And if we do that?” Pendergast asked. “What can the city do about these Wrinklers?”

Mephisto thought a moment. “Like any infestation. Get them where they live.”

“Easier said than done.”

Mephisto’s hard, glittery gaze landed on the FBI agent. “You got a better idea, Whitey?” he hissed.

Pendergast was silent. “Not yet,” he said at last.

= 24 =

Robert Willson, librarian at the New York Historical Society, looked at the other occupant of the map room with irritation. Odd-looking guy: somber “black suit, pale cat’s eyes, blond-white hair combed severely back from a high forehead. Annoying, too. Annoying as hell. He’d been there all afternoon, making demands and throwing the maps askew. Every time Willson turned back to his computer to resume work on his own pet project--the definitive monograph on Zuñi fetishes--the man would be up, asking more questions.

As if on cue, the man got out of his chair and glided over noiselessly. “Pardon?” he said in his polite but insistent mint-julep drawl.

Willson glanced up from the screen. “Yes?” he snapped.

“I hate to trouble you again, but it’s my understanding that the Vaux and Olmstead plans for Central Park called for canals to drain the Central Park swamps. I wonder if I could look at those plans?”

Willson compressed his lips. “Those plans were rejected by the Parks Commission,” he replied. “They’ve been lost. A tragedy.” He turned back to his screen, hoping the man would take the hint. The real tragedy would be if he didn’t get back to his monograph.

“I see,” the visitor said, not taking the hint at all. “Then tell me, how
were
the swamps drained?”

Willson sat back in his chair exasperatedly. “I should have thought it was common knowledge. The old Eighty-sixth Street aqueduct was used.”

“And there are plans for the operation?”

“Yes,” said Willson.

“May I see them?”

With a sigh, Willson got up and made his way through the heavy door back into the stacks. It was, of course, in its usual mess. The room managed to be both vast and claustrophobic, metal shelves reaching two stories into the gloom, tottering with rolled maps and moldering blueprints. Willson could almost feel the dust settling on his bald scalp as he scanned the arcane lists of numbers. His nose began to itch. He found the correct location, pulled the ancient maps and carried them back to the cramped reading room.
Why do people always request the heaviest maps,
he wondered to himself as he emerged from the stacks.

“Here they are,” Willson said, placing them on the mahogany counter. He watched as the man took them over to his desk and began looking them over, jotting notes and making sketches in a small leather-bound notebook.
He’s got money,
Willson thought sourly.
No professor could afford a suit like that.

A heavenly quiet descended on the map room. At last, he could get some work done. Bringing some yellowed reference photographs out of his desk, Willson began making changes to his chapter on clan imagery.

Within minutes, he felt the visitor standing behind him again. Willson looked up again silently.

The man nodded at one of Willson’s photographs. It showed a nondescript stone carved in an abstract representation of an animal, a small piece of sinew holding a flint point to its back. “I think you’ll find that particular fetish, which I see you’ve labeled as a puma, is in fact a grizzly bear,” the man said.

Willson looked at the pale face and the faint smile, wondering if this was some kind of a joke. “Cushing, who collected this fetish in 1883, specifically identified it as puma clan,” he replied. “You can check the reference yourself.” Everybody was an expert these days.

“The grizzly fetish,” the man continued undeterred, “always has a spearpoint strapped to its back, as this one does. The puma fetish has an arrowhead.”

Willson straightened up. “Just what is the difference, may I ask?”

“You kill a puma with a bow and arrow. To kill a grizzly, you must use a spear.”

Willson was silent.

“Cushing was wrong on occasion,” the man added gently.

Willson shuffled his manuscript together and laid it aside. “Frankly, I would prefer to trust Cushing over someone ...” He left the sentence unfinished. “The library will be closing in one hour,” he added.

“In that case,” the man said, “I wonder if I could see the plates from the 1956 Upper West Side Natural Gas Pipeline Survey.”

Willson compressed his lips. “Which ones?”

“All of them, if you please.”

This was too much. “I’m sorry,” Willson said crisply. “It’s against the rules. Patrons are allowed only ten maps at a time from the same series.” He glared at the visitor triumphantly.

But the man seemed oblivious, lost in thought. Suddenly, he looked back at the librarian.

“Robert Willson,” he said, pointing at the nameplate. “Now I remember why your name is familiar.”

“You do?” Willson asked uncertainly.

“Indeed. Aren’t you the one who gave the excellent paper on mirage stones at the Navajo Studies Conference in Window Rock last year?”

“Why, yes, I did,” Willson said.

“I thought so. I wasn’t able to be there myself, but I read the proceedings. I’ve made something of a private study of southwestern religious imagery.” The visitor paused. “Nothing as serious as yours, of course.”

Willson cleared his throat. “I suppose one cannot spend thirty years in such study,” he said as modestly as possible, “without one’s name becoming known.”

The visitor smiled. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. My name is Pendergast.”

Willson extended his hand and encountered an unpleasantly limp handshake. He prided himself on the firmness of his own.

“It’s gratifying to see you continuing your studies,” the man named Pendergast said. “Ignorance of southwestern culture is so profound.”

“It is,” Willson agreed wholeheartedly. He felt a peculiar sense of pride. Nobody had taken the least interest in his work before, let alone been able to talk about it intelligibly. Of course, this Pendergast was obviously misinformed about Indian fetishes, but ...

“I’d love to discuss this further,” Pendergast said, “but I fear I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Not at all,” Willson replied. “What was that you’d asked to see? The ’56 Survey?”

Pendergast nodded. “There was one other item, if I may. I understand there was a survey of existing tunnels done in the 1920s for the proposed Interborough Rapid Transit system. Is that correct?”

Willson’s face fell. “But there are sixty maps in that series ...” His voice trailed off.

“I see,” Pendergast said. “It’s against the rules, then.” He looked crestfallen.

Suddenly, Willson smiled. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said, pleased at his own recklessness. “And don’t worry about closing time. I’ll be here late, working on my monograph. Rules were made to be broken, right?”

Ten minutes later, he emerged from the gloom of the storage room, pushing an overloaded cart across the worn floorboards.

= 25 =

Smithback walked into the cavernous entryway of the Four Seasons, eager to leave the heat and stench and noise of Park Avenue behind. He approached the four-square bar with measured step. He’d sat here many times before, looking enviously across the room, past the Picasso hanging, toward the unattainable paradise beyond. This time, however, he did not dally at the bar, but continued toward the maître d’. A quickly mentioned name was all it took, and now he, Smithback, was himself walking down that corridor of dreams toward the exclusive restaurant beyond.

Every table in the Pool Room was filled, yet the space seemed quiet and calm somehow, muted by its own vastness. He threaded his way past captains of industry, publishing moguls, and robber barons to one of the prized tables near the fountain. There, already seated, was Mrs. Wisher.

“Mr. Smithback,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”

Smithback took the indicated chair across the table, glancing about as he did so. This promised to be an interesting lunch, and he hoped he had time to enjoy it fully. He’d barely started to write up his big story, and press time was 6:00
P.M.

“Would you care for a glass of Amarone?” Mrs. Wisher asked, indicating the bottle beside the table. She was crisply dressed in a saffron-colored blouse and pleated skirt.

“Please,” Smith replied, meeting her gaze. He felt much more at ease than the last time he’d spoken to her: sitting primly in her darkened apartment, a copy of the
Post
lying beside her like a silent accusation. His “Angel of Central Park South” obituary, the
Post’s
reward offer, and his favorable coverage on the Grand Army Plaza rally made him feel confident of a warmer reception.

Mrs. Wisher nodded to the wine steward, waited until the man had poured a glass for the journalist and departed, then leaned almost imperceptibly forward.

“Mr. Smithback, you’re undoubtedly wondering why I asked you to join me for lunch.”

“It had occurred to me.” Smithback tasted the wine, found it excellent.

“I won’t waste any time sporting with your intelligence, then. Certain events are about to happen in this city. And I’d like you to document them.”

Smithback put his wine glass down. “Me?”

The corners of Mrs. Wisher’s mouth turned up slightly in what might have been a smile. “Ah. I thought you would be surprised. But you see, Mr. Smithback, I’ve done some research on you since our last meeting. And I read your book on the Museum murders.”

“You bought a copy?” Smithback asked hopefully.

“The Amsterdam Avenue branch of the public library had one. It made very interesting reading. I had no idea you were so directly involved with almost every aspect of that event.”

Smithback’s eyes darted quickly toward her face, but he could detect no trace of sarcasm in her expression.

“I also read your article on our rally,” Mrs. Wisher continued. “It had a positive tone that I found lacking in some of the other press coverage.” She waved her hand. “Besides, I really have you to thank for what’s happened.”

“You do?” Smithback asked a little nervously.

Mrs. Wisher nodded. “It was you who convinced me that the only way to get the city’s attention was to dig a spur into its flank. Remember your comment? ‘People in this town don’t pay attention to something unless you slap them in the face with it.’ Had it not been for you, I might still be in my drawing room, writing letters to the mayor, instead of putting my sorrow to good use.”

Smithback nodded. The not-so-merry widow had a point.

“Since that rally, our movement has spread dramatically,” Mrs. Wisher said. “We’ve hit a common nerve. People are coming together--people of power and influence. But our message belongs just as much to the common man, the man on the street. And that’s the person you can reach with your paper.”

Although Smithback did not like to be reminded that he wrote for the common man, he kept his expression even. Besides, he’d seen it for himself: By the time the rally had ended, there’d been plenty of them around, drinking, heckling, hoping for action.

“And so this is what I propose.” Mrs. Wisher placed her small, neatly manicured fingernails on the linen tablecloth. “I will give you privileged access to every event planned by Take Back Our City. Many of these actions will be intentionally unannounced; the press, like the police, will learn of them too late to make any real difference. You, however, will be brought into my circle. You will know what to expect, and when to expect it. You can accompany me directly, if you like. And then you can slap your readers in the face with it.”

Smithback struggled to keep from betraying his excitement.
This is too good to be true,
he thought.

“I imagine you’d like to publish another book,” Mrs. Wisher went on. “Once the Take Back Our City campaign reaches a successful conclusion, you’d have my blessing on such a project. I’ll make myself available for interviews. And Hiram Bennett, editor-in-chief of Cygnus House, is one of my closest friends. I think he’d be very interested in seeing such a manuscript.”