Reliquary (20 page)

“Hell of a way to spend my afternoon off,” D’Agosta muttered.

Though he found himself itching in many remote places, he decided not to scratch. Scratching meant touching the ancient, greasy London Fog raincoat he wore, or the filthy Kmart plaid polyester shirt, or the shiny, threadbare trousers. He wondered where Pendergast had gotten all this stuff.

On top of all that, the dut and grease on his face were real, not something out of a makeup tin. Even his shoes were disgusting. But when he’d balked, Pendergast had said simply, “Vincent, your life depends on it.”

He hadn’t even been allowed to carry his gun or shield. “You don’t want to know,” Pendergast had said, “what they’ll do to you if they find a badge.” In fact, D’Agosta thought morosely, this whole expedition was a direct violation of departmental regulations.

Glancing up briefly, he spotted a woman approaching, spotless in a crisp summer dress and high heels, walking a Chihuahua. She stopped abruptly, stepping to the side and averting her eyes with a distasteful look. As Pendergast passed by, the dog suddenly lunged forward, erupting with a shrill volley of squeaky barks. Pendergast shuffled aside, and the dog redoubled its hysterical efforts, tugging against the leash.

Despite his discomfort, or perhaps because of it, D’Agosta found himself growing annoyed at the look of loathing on the woman’s face.
Who the hell is she to judge us?
he thought. As he was passing, he suddenly stopped and turned to face her. “Have a nice day,” he growled, thrusting his chin forward.

The woman shrank backwards. “You revolting man,” she shrieked at D’Agosta. “Stay away from him, Petit Chou!”

Pendergast grabbed D’Agosta and pulled him around the corner onto Columbus Avenue. “Are you mad?” he said under his breath. As they hurried on, D’Agosta could hear the woman calling, “Help! Those men threatened me!”

Pendergast dashed southward, D’Agosta struggling to keep up. Moving into the shadow of a large driveway halfway down the block, Pendergast knelt quickly above the steel plates set into the sidewalk that marked an emergency subway exit. Using a small hooked tool, he levered up the plates, then ushered D’Agosta down the iron stairs beneath. Closing them behind him, Pendergast followed D’Agosta into the darkness. At the bottom were two sets of train tracks, dimly illuminated. Crossing the tracks, they reached an archway leading to another descending set of stairs, which they took two steps at a time.

On the lowest step, Pendergast stopped. D’Agosta came to a halt beside him in the pitch blackness, fighting for breath. After a few moments, Pendergast switched on a penlight, chuckling. “ ‘Have a nice day’ ... Vincent, what could you have been thinking?”

“Just trying to be friendly,” D’Agosta said truculently.

“You could have sunk our little expedition before it left the dock. Remember, you’re here simply to complete my disguise. The only way I’m certain to see Mephisto is if I pose as the leader of another community. And I’d never travel without an aide-de-camp.” He gestured with his penlight into a narrow side tunnel. “That way leads east, into his territory.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“Remember my instructions. I’ll do the talking. It’s imperative that you forget you’re a police officer. No matter what happens, don’t try to interfere.” He reached into the pocket of his grimy trenchcoat, bringing out two floppy woolen hats. “Put this on,” he said, handing one to D’Agosta.

“Why?”

“Headgear disguises the true contours of a person’s head. Besides, if we’re forced to make a quick escape, we can ‘break our profiles’ by discarding them. Remember, we’re not used to the darkness. We’ll be the ones at a disadvantage.” He dug into the pocket again and took out a small, dull object which he fitted into his mouth.

“What the hell is that?” D’Agosta asked, pulling the hat onto his head.

“A false rubber palate for changing tongue position, thus modifying the harmonic resonances of the throat. We will be consorting with criminals, remember? I spent a fair amount of time last year at Riker’s Island, profiling murderers for Quantico. It’s possible that I’ll come in contact with some of them down here. If so, they must not recognize me, either by appearance or voice.” He waved his hand. “Of course, makeup alone isn’t enough. I must adapt my posture, way of walking, even mannerisms. Your job is easier: keep silent, blend in, follow my lead. We must not in any way stand out. Understood?”

D’Agosta nodded.

“With any luck, this Mephisto will be able to point us in the right direction. Perhaps we’ll return with evidence of the killings he described to the
Post.
That could provide additional forensics material we desperately need.” He paused. “Any leads on the Brambell murder?” he asked. He took a step forward, shining the penlight ahead.

“No,” said D’Agosta. “Waxie and the top brass think it was just another random killing. But I’m wondering if it didn’t have something to do with his work.”

Pendergast nodded. “An interesting theory.”

“Seems to me that these killings--or at least some of them--aren’t random at all. I mean, Brambell was on the verge of discovering who the second skeleton belonged to. Maybe somebody didn’t want that known.”

Pendergast nodded again. “I have to admit, Lieutenant, I was flabbergasted when I heard the second skeleton belonged to Kawakita. It opens up a vista of”--he paused--“complexity and ugliness. And it suggests that Dr. Frock, Dr. Green, and the others working on the case should be protected.”

D’Agosta scowled. “I went up to Horlocker’s office this morning with that in mind. He dismissed any kind of protection for Green or Frock. Said he suspected Kawakita must’ve been involved with Pamela Wisher somehow, just got caught in the wrong place and the wrong time. A random killing, like Brambell. All he cared was that we didn’t leak anything about it to the press, at least until Kawakita’s family is tracked down and alerted--assuming there’re any left to alert; I think somebody once said he was an orphan. Waxie was there, too, strutting and preening like an overstuffed rooster. He told me to do a better job of keeping this under wraps than I did with Wisher.”

“And?”

“I suggested he go put a poultice on it. Politely, of course. I’d been thinking it was best not to alarm Frock or Green. But after that meeting, I talked to them both, gave them some advice. They promised to be very careful, at least until their work is finished.”

“Have they discovered what caused the skeletal deformation in Kawakita?”

“Not yet.” D’Agosta nodded absently.

Pendergast turned toward him. “What is it?” he asked.

D’Agosta hesitated. “I suppose I’m a little worried about how Dr. Green is taking all this. I mean, it was my idea to tap her and Frock in the first place, but now I’m not so sure. Frock seems to be his usual ornery self, but Margo ...” He paused. “You know how she reacted to the Museum murders. Conditioning herself, running every day, packing a pistol.”

Pendergast nodded. “It’s not an uncommon type of post-traumatic stress reaction. People who emerge from terrifying situations sometimes look for ways to gain control, to limit their feelings of vulnerability. Actually, it’s a relatively healthy response to severe stress.” He smiled grimly. “And I can think of few more stressful situations than the one she and I found ourselves in, there in that darkened Museum corridor.”

“Yeah, but she’s overdoing it. And now, with all this shit happening ... well, I’m not sure I made the right decision, calling her in like I did.”

“It was absolutely the right decision. We need her expertise. Especially now that we know Kawakita is dead. You’ll be investigating his last known whereabouts, I trust?”

D’Agosta nodded.

“You might consider asking Dr. Green to lend a hand with that.” Pendergast resumed his scrutiny of the tunnel, peering into the darkness with his sooty face. “Ah, well. Ready, Vincent?”

“I guess so. What if we meet hostiles?”

Pendergast smiled slightly. “Trading in local commerce tends to keep the natives peaceful.”

“Drugs?” D’Agosta asked in disbelief.

Pendergast nodded, opening his coat. In the gleam of the penlight, D’Agosta could make out several tiny pockets stitched into the filthy lining. “It appears that virtually everyone down here is or has been an addict of one kind or another.” His finger moved from one pocket to the next. “I have an entire pharmacopoeia here: crack cocaine, methylphenidate, Carbrital, Seconal, military-grade Blue 88s. They may well save our lives, Vincent. They saved mine on my first descent.”

Pendergast dug into one of the small pockets and pulled out a slender black capsule. “Biphetamine,” he said. “Known in the underground fraternity as a black beauty.”

He stared at the capsule for a moment. Then, with a quick movement, he popped it into his mouth.

“What the--?” D’Agosta began, but the FBI agent held his hand out for silence.

“It’s not enough for me to
act
the part,” Pendergast whispered. “I have to
be
the part. This Mephisto is undoubtedly a suspicious, paranoid individual. Scenting fraud is his stock in trade. Remember that.”

D’Agosta said nothing. They really had stepped outside society, outside the law, outside everything.

They passed into the side tunnel and moved along an abandoned rail line. Every few minutes, Pendergast would stop to consult some notes. Following the FBI agent deeper into darkness, D’Agosta was amazed at how quickly he lost his own orientation, his sense of time.

Suddenly Pendergast pointed toward a wavering reddish light, seemingly suspended in the darkness perhaps a hundred yards ahead of them. “There are people around that fire,” he whispered. “It’s probably a small ‘upstairs’ community, squatters living at the edge of Mephisto’s domain.” He stared speculatively at the glow for a few moments. Then he turned.

“Shall we retire to the drawing room?” he asked, and, without waiting for an answer, began moving toward the distant glow.

As they drew closer, D’Agosta made out a dozen or so figures, lounging on the ground or hunched atop milk crates, staring into the fire. A bubbling black coffeepot sat among the coals. Pendergast ambled into the firelight and squatted down beside the blaze. Nobody paid any attention. He reached into one of the many layers of his outfit and pulled out a pint bottle of English Lord De Luxe Tokay wine. D’Agosta watched as all eyes swiveled in the direction of the bottle.

Pendergast unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, sighing contentedly. “Anybody want a slug?” he asked, turning the bottle’s label toward the firelight so all could see. D’Agosta was momentarily taken aback: the FBI agent’s voice had changed utterly. It now sounded thick, drugged, with a distinct Flatbush accent. Pendergast’s pale skin, eyes, and hair looked alien and menacing in the flickering glare.

A hand reached out. “Yeah,” came a voice. A man on a milk crate took the bottle and placed it to his lips. There was a long sucking noise. When he handed it back to Pendergast, a quarter of the contents were gone. Pendergast passed the bottle to another, and it went around the circle, returning empty. There was a single grunt of thanks.

D’Agosta tried to maneuver into the plume of smoke, hoping to dilute the stench of unwashed human bodies, bad wine, and rancid urine.

“I’m looking for Mephisto,” Pendergast said after a moment.

There was a momentary stir around the campfire. The men seemed suddenly wary. “Who wants to know?” the one who’d first taken the bottle asked belligerently.

“
I
want to know,” said Pendergast, immediately belligerent himself.

There was a short silence while the man eyed Pendergast, sizing him up. “Up yours, Jack,” he said at last, sinking back into his chair.

Pendergast moved so quickly that D’Agosta jumped away, startled. When he looked back, the man was facedown in the rubble, and Pendergast was standing over him, one foot planted on his neck.

“Shit!” the man howled.

Pendergast pressed down. “Nobody disses Whitey,” he hissed.

“I didn’t mean nothing, man. Jesus!”

Pendergast eased up slightly.

“Mephisto hangs out at Route 666.”

“Where’s that?”

“Stop it, man, that shit hurts! Look, head down track 100, watch for the old generator. Take the ladder down to the catwalk.”

Pendergast released his foot, and the man sat up, rubbing his neck. “Mephisto don’t like outsiders.”

“Him and I have business to discuss.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“About the Wrinklers.”

Even in the dark, D’Agosta sensed the group stiffen. “What about them?” a new voice asked sharply.

“I talk to Mephisto only.” Pendergast nodded to D’Agosta, and they moved away from the campfire, continuing on into the darkness of the tunnel. When the fire had receded to a dwindling point, Pendergast once again snapped on the penlight.

“You can’t let anyone disrespect you down here,”-Pendergast said quietly. “Even a marginal group like that. If they sense weakness, you’re as good as dead.”

“Those were some pretty slick moves,” D’Agosta said.

“It’s not difficult to knock down a drunk. On my last trip down, I learned that alcohol is the drug of choice on these upper levels. Except for that one thin fellow, farthest from the fire. I’d wager, Lieutenant, that he was a skin-popper. Did you notice how he was absently scratching himself during the entire meeting? A side effect of fentanyl, quite unmistakable.”

The tunnel branched, and after consulting a railyard map from one of his pockets Pendergast took the narrower, left-hand passage. “This leads to track 100,” he said.

D’Agosta shuffled on behind. After what seemed an interminable distance, Pendergast stopped again, pointing out a great rusting machine with several huge belt gears, each at least twelve feet in diameter. The rotted belt lay underneath in a heap on the ground. On the far side was a metal staircase, ending at a catwalk suspended above an ancient tunnel. Ducking under a stalactite-covered pipe stenciled
H.P.ST.,
D’Agosta followed Pendergast down the staircase and along the rickety grating. At the end of the catwalk, a hinged plate in the floor led to a metal ladder, which descended into a large, unfinished tunnel. Rock and rusted metal I-beams lay in untidy piles against the walls. Although D’Agosta could see the remains of several camps, the place appeared deserted.