Reliquary (54 page)

“My dear, you don’t understand. You
cannot
understand,” said Frock.

“And you killed him because he knew the drug’s effects were irreversible. Isn’t that right? I learned that much through my own experiments. You can’t cure these people, and you know it. But do
they
?”

The chanting in the ranks around them seemed to falter slightly, and Frock glanced briefly from side to side. “These are the claims of a desperate woman. This is beneath you, my dear.”

They’re listening
, Margo thought.
Perhaps they can still be convinced.

“Of course,” the voice of Pendergast intruded on her thoughts. “Kawakita fell into this ceremony, this dispensing of the drug, because it seemed the easiest way to keep his own poor victims docile. But he didn’t especially enjoy the trappings or the ritual. He didn’t take them seriously. That was
your
addition. As an anthropologist, how you must have enjoyed the chance to create your own cult. Minions--or perhaps acolytes--wielding primitive knives. Your own hut of skulls. A reliquary for your wheelchair, symbol of your own transformation.”

Frock stood stiffly, saying nothing.

“That’s the real reason the killings have been increasing. It’s not lack of the drug anymore, is it? Now you’ve got a reservoir full. No--there’s another agenda. An obsessive one. An
architectural
one.” He nodded toward the hut. “You needed a temple for your new religion. For your personal deification.”

Frock looked at Pendergast, his lips twitching. “And why not? Every new age needs its new religion.”

“But it’s still a ceremony at its core, isn’t it? And everything relies on control. If these creatures know the effects are irreversible, what hold will you have on them?”

Murmurs were rising from among the closest Wrinklers.

“Enough!” Frock cried, clapping his hands. “We don’t have much time. Prepare them!” Margo felt her arms seized again, then she was dragged to her feet, a knifepoint placed against her throat. Frock looked at her, a strange mix of expressions again playing across his face. “I wish you could be here to experience the change for yourself, Margo. But many must fall in the transition. I am sorry.”

Smithback lunged toward Frock, but was dragged back.

“Dr. Frock!” Pendergast cried. “Margo was your student. Remember how the three of us struggled against the Museum Beast. Even now, you’re not wholly responsible for what’s happened. Perhaps there is still a way for you to go back. We’ll heal your mind.”

“And destroy my life?” Frock leaned toward the FBI agent, lowering his voice to whisper. “Go back to what, may I ask? Being a helpless, superannuated, slightly ridiculous curator
emeritus?
One whose years are rapidly dwindling? Surely Margo’s research showed you there is another side effect to the new drug: it eliminates the concentration of free radical molecules in living tissue. In short, it
extends life
! You would have me give up both my freedom of movement
and
my life?” He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes to twelve. We’re out of time.”

There was a sudden puff of wind, and a series of small dust clouds arose from the skulls forming the top rank of the hut. Almost immediately, there was a sharp rattling noise, and Margo realized she was hearing the sound of automatic weapons fire.

There was a strange popping sound--then another--and suddenly the entire Pavilion exploded in a burst of brilliant light. Screams and squeals of pain sounded from all sides. There was another burst, and the knifepoint vanished from her neck. Margo shook her head, stunned, temporarily blinded by the fierce glare. The chanting died away into confusion, and Margo heard angry howls arise from the group. While her eyes were closed, there was yet another burst of light, accompanied by more screams of pain. Margo felt one of the Wrinklers drop his hold. With the instinctive speed of desperation, she twisted out of the grasp of her other captor and lunged toward the ground, rolling away, scrambling onto her hands and knees, blinking desperately in an effort to restore her sight. As the spots of black and white began to clear, she could see several plumes of smoke rising from the floor, burning impossibly bright. Wrinklers everywhere had fallen to the ground, pawing at their faces, hiding their heads beneath their cloaks, convulsing with pain. Nearby, Pendergast and D’Agosta had also broken free and were rushing to the aid of Smithback.

Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and one side of the hut collapsed in a gout of flame. A shrapnel cloud of shattered bone flew across the closest ranks.

“Some of the SEALs must still be alive,” Pendergast shouted, pulling Smithback toward them. “That shooting is coming from the platform outside the Pavilion. Let’s head for it while we still can. Where’s Mephisto?”

“Stop them!” Frock boomed, shading his own eyes. But the blinded Wrinklers milled about in confusion.

Just then another shell landed in the clearing before the hut, bursting the paling into countless pieces and shattering two of the cauldrons. A great gush of steaming liquid began pouring across the floor, gleaming in the torchlight. Cries of dismay rose from the Wrinklers, and several of those on the ground nearby began to lap up the precious fluid. Frock was shouting, gesturing in the direction from which the shells had come.

D’Agosta and the others ran toward the free ground at the rear of the hut. Margo hesitated, looking around desperately for her carryall. The intense light was dropping, and a few of the creatures were beginning to shamble toward them now, hands up against the glare, stone knives glinting evilly.

“Dr. Green,
now
!”
Pendergast cried.

Suddenly, she saw it, lying torn and open on the dusty ground. She grabbed for it, then sprinted after Smithback. The group had halted near the tunnel leading toward the platform, their exit blocked by a ragged line of Wrinklers.

“Shit,” D’Agosta muttered fervently.

“Hey!” Margo heard the unmistakable voice of Mephisto shouting above the noise and confusion. “Fat Napoleon!”

She turned to see Mephisto scrambling onto one of the empty platforms, turquoise necklace swinging wildly around his neck. There was another blast, farther away this time; a gout of flame arose from the midst of one of the scattered processions.

Frock turned in his direction, squinting.

“Drug-addled bum, am I? Take a look!” Mephisto dug deep into the crotch of his filthy pants and drew out what looked to Margo like a kidney-shaped disk of green plastic. “You know what this is? Antipersonnel mine. Chock-full of metal splinters coated in Teflon, propelled by a charge equal to twenty grenades. Very ugly.”

Mephisto shook it in Frock’s direction. “It’s armed. So tell your leathery minions to back off.”

The Wrinklers paused.

“A bluff,” Frock said calmly. “You may be filth, but you’re not a suicide.”

“Are you so sure?” Mephisto grinned. “Tell you what. I’d rather be blown to pieces than end up decorating that little A-frame of yours.” He nodded toward Pendergast. “Yo, Grant’s Tomb! You’ll forgive me, I hope, for appropriating this tidbit from your armory. Promises are all very nice, but I planned to make sure
nobody
ever rousted Route 666 again. Now you’d best hie yourself over here if we’re going to get topside.”

Pendergast shook his head and tapped his wrist, signifying they’d run out of time. Frock gestured frantically to the hooded figures surrounding the platforms. “Cut his throat!” he cried. The Wrinklers swarmed toward Mephisto, who pulled himself up to the center of the platform.

“Good-bye, Mayor Whitey!” he called. “Remember your promise!” Margo turned away in horror as he tossed the disk into the masses surging around his feet. There was a sudden orange flash--the dank, filthy space filled with the heat of the sun--then the overwave of pressure hit, a massive blast that threw her to the ground. Rising to her knees, she looked back to see a great sheet of flame roar up behind the ruined hut, red against the brilliant white of the flares. For a moment, she could see the silhouette of Frock--standing as if triumphant, his arms outstretched, his white hair tinted orange by a thousand tongues of fire--before all was engulfed in roiling smoke and flames.

In the confusion, the ragged group of Wrinklers before them was parting.

“Move!” Pendergast cried over the roar of the firestorm. Hoisting her pack, Margo followed them under the archway at the far end of the Crystal Pavilion. On the railway platform beyond, she could see D’Agosta and Smithback come to a halt beside a slightly built man in a black wet suit, his face slick with sweat and camouflage paint.

There were wet wheezing sounds behind her. The Wrinklers had closed ranks and were bearing down on them. At the narrow mouth of the archway, Margo stopped and turned.

“Margo!” Pendergast shouted from the platform. “What are you doing?”

“We’ve got to stop them here!” Margo cried, digging into her pack. “We’ll never outrun them!”

“Don’t be a fool!” Pendergast said.

Ignoring him, Margo grabbed two of the liter bottles, one in each hand. Gripping them tightly, she hosed a stream of liquid across the archway entrance. “Stop!” she cried. “I’ve got two billion units of vitamin D
₃
in these bottles!”

The Wrinklers came on, their eyes blood red and streaming, their skin mottled and burned from the intense light.

She shook the squeeze bottles. “Hear me? Activated 7-dehydrocholesterol! Enough to kill all of you ten times over!” As the first Wrinkler reached her, knife raised, she hosed it in the face, and then hit a second Wrinkler just behind it. They fell backward, writhing horribly, small wisps of acrid smoke rising from their skin.

The other Wrinklers paused, a gibbering sound rising from their ranks.

“Vitamin D!” Margo repeated. “Bottled sunlight!”

She raised her arms and sent two delicate streams of liquid arcing over the milling crowd. A wail rose up, some falling and tearing at their cloaks, splattering droplets on their companions. Margo stepped forward and hosed the rest of the front rank. They fell backward in sheer panic, the sounds of gibbering and wailing filling the air. She advanced again, spraying a thick line of solution from left to right, and then the mass of Wrinklers broke and turned, scrambling over one another to get away, leaving a dozen convulsing, smoking bodies on the floor, ripping desperately at their cloaks.

Margo stepped back, and hosed the rest of the solution across the floor of the archway, then up along its sides and ceiling, leaving the exit tunnel wet and dripping. She tossed the empty containers into the Pavilion. “Let’s go!”

She ran after the others, catching up to them by an open grating at the far end of the platform.

“We’ve got to get back to the rally point,” the black-suited figure said. “Those charges are set to go off in ten minutes.”

“You first, Margo,” D’Agosta said.

As she dropped to the level of the tracks and began to descend into the drain below, a series of shattering explosions sounded behind and above her.

“Our charges!” D’Agosta cried. “The fires must have set them off prematurely!”

Pendergast turned to answer, but his voice was drowned in a rumble which, like an earthquake, was felt first in the feet, then in the gut, growing in violence and volume. A strange wind kicked up in the passageway--a gathering roar of air, forced along by the collapse of the Crystal Pavilion--pushing dust, smoke, scraps of paper, and the ripe smell of blood before it.

= 62 =

Margo dropped through the drain into a long, low tunnel, lit only by the sputtering glow of a dying flare. Several piles of rubble were strewn here and there, poking up from the standing water on the tunnel floor. Above her, the passages still rumbled and shook from the aftereffects of the concussion. Dust and debris drifted down through the drain, settling onto her shoulders.

Smithback fell into the water beside her, followed by Pendergast, D’Agosta, and the diver.

“Who the hell are you?” D’Agosta asked. “And what happened to the rest of the SEALs?”

“I’m not a SEAL, sir,” the man said. “I’m a police diver. Officer Snow, sir.”

“Well, well,” said D’Agosta. “The guy who started it all. Got a light, Snow?”

The diver snapped a new flare to life, and suddenly the tunnel was illuminated by a harsh crimson glare.

“Oh, God!” Margo heard Smithback murmur beside her. Then she realized that what she thought to be piles of rubble were actually rubber-suited divers, battered and headless, their bodies splayed in mute agony. The surrounding walls were pocked and scarred by countless bullet holes and the charred tracings of shells.

“SEAL Team Gamma,” Snow muttered. “After my partner bought it, I ran back here to make a stand. Those creatures chased me up the drain, but then abandoned the chase on those tracks up there.”

“Guess they were late for the debutante’s ball,” D’Agosta said, looking around at the massacre site, his face hard.

“You didn’t see any of the other SEALs in there, sir?” Snow asked. “I followed the prints. I hoped some of them might have survived ...” his voice trailed off when he saw the look on D’Agosta’s face. There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Come on,” Snow urged, once again animated. “There’s still forty pounds of C-4 around here, waiting to go off.”

Margo stumbled forward in a dark daze. She felt the floor of the tunnel solid beneath her feet, and she tried to draw that solidity up through her feet, her legs, and her arms. She knew she could not allow herself to think about what she had seen, what she had learned, inside the Crystal Pavilion: if she stopped to do that, she would be unable to go on.

The tunnel took a long, shallow bend. Ahead, Margo could see Snow and D’Agosta already moving into a large vaulted space at the end of the tunnel.

Beside her, she could hear Smithback’s breathing turn choppy. Her eyes drifted toward the tunnel floor. Around her lay the torn and bloodied bodies of perhaps a dozen Wrinklers. She caught a glimpse of a dirty hood, burned away to expose skin seamed and veined to an extraordinary thickness.