Relic

= 45 =

Margo watched dispiritedly as Frock shouted into an internal phone set in the granite walls of the Great Rotunda. Wright’s amplified speech poured out of the Hall of the Heavens, preventing Margo from hearing a word Frock said. Finally, Frock reached up, slamming the phone onto its cradle. He wheeled himself around to face her. “This is absurd. Apparently, Pendergast is in the basement somewhere. Or at least, he was. He radioed in about an hour ago. They refuse to contact him without authorization.”

“In the basement? Where?” Margo asked.

“Section 29, they said. Why he’s down there, or was down there, they refuse to say. My guess is they don’t know. Section 29 covers a lot of ground.” He turned to Margo. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

“Go down to the basement, of course,” Frock replied.

“I don’t know,” Margo said dubiously. “Perhaps we [314] should get the authorization they need to summon him up.

Frock moved impatiently in his wheelchair. “We don’t even know who could give such authorization.” He stared at her, becoming aware of her uncertainty. “I don’t think you need worry about the creature confronting us, my dear,” he said. “If I’m right, it will be drawn to the concentration of people here at the exhibition. It’s our obligation to do whatever we can to prevent a catastrophe; we took that on when we made these discoveries.”

Still Margo hesitated. It was one thing for Frock to speak in grandiose terms. He hadn’t been inside that exhibition. He hadn’t heard the stealthy padding of feet. He hadn’t run blindly in the screaming dark ...

She took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Since Section 29 was inside the Cell Two security perimeter, Margo and Frock had to show their IDs twice on their way to the proper elevator. Apparently, the curfew being suspended for the evening, guards and police officers were more concerned about detaining suspicious or unauthorized characters than restricting the movement of Museum employees.

“Pendergast!” Frock shouted as Margo wheeled him out of the elevator into the dim basement corridor. “This is Doctor Frock. Can you hear me?”

His voice echoed and died.

Margo knew a little of the history behind Section 29. When the Museum’s powerplant had been located nearby, the area housed steam pipes, supply tunnels, and the subterranean cubbyholes used by troglodyte workers. After the Museum switched to a more modern power plant in the 1920s, the old works had been removed, leaving a series of ghostly warrens now used for storage.

Margo wheeled Frock down the low-ceilinged hallways. Every so often, Frock would bang on a door or [315] call Pendergast’s name. Each time, his shouts were greeted by silence.

“We’re getting nowhere,” Frock said as Margo stopped for a breather. Frock’s white hair was in disarray, and his tuxedo jacket was rumpled.

Margo looked nervously around. She knew approximately where they were: somewhere, at the far end of the confusion of passages, lay the vast, silent space of the old powerhouse: a lightless, subterranean pantheon now used to hold the Museum’s collection of whale bones. Despite Frock’s predictions of the creature’s behavior, the shouting made her nervous.

“This could take hours,” Frock said. “He may not be here anymore. Perhaps he never was.” He sighed deeply. “Pendergast was our last hope.”

“Maybe the noise and confusion will frighten the creature, keep it in hiding, away from the party,” Margo said with a hope she didn’t feel.

Frock rested his head in his hands. “Not likely. The beast must be driven by smell. It may be intelligent, it may be cunning, but like a human serial killer, when its blood lust is up it cannot control itself.”

Frock sat up, his eyes filled with renewed vigor.

“Pendergast!” he shouted again. “Where are you?”

Waters stood listening, his body tensed. He could feel his heart pounding, and he couldn’t seem to gulp enough air into his lungs.

He’d been in plenty of dangerous situations before, been shot at, knifed, even had acid thrown at him once. Every time he’d been cool, almost detached, when he’d had to be. Now, one little thump and I’m panicking. He clawed at his collar. The air’s stuffy in this damn room. He willed himself to breathe slowly and deeply. I’ll just call Garcia. We’ll investigate together. And find nothing.

Then he noticed that the rustling of feet overhead had changed its rhythm. Instead of the scraping and sliding he’d heard before, now he heard a constant drumming, [316] like the sound of running feet. As he listened, he thought he heard a faint screaming. Dread flooded through him.

There was another thump in the electrical room.

Sweet Jesus, something big’s happening.

He grabbed his radio. “Garcia? You copy? Requesting backup to investigate suspicious noises in the electrical systems room.”

Waters swallowed. Garcia wasn’t responding on the regular frequency. As Waters holstered his radio, he noticed that the geek had stood up and was heading for the electrical room.

“What are you doing?” Waters asked.

“I want to see what that noise is,” the geek said, opening the door. “I think the air conditioner might have failed again.” He put his hand around the doorframe, feeling for a light switch.

“Wait a minute, you,” Waters said. “Don’t—”

Waters’s radio burst into static. “We got a stampede in here!” There was more static. “... All units, mobilize for emergency evacuation!” More static. “Can’t hold this crowd, we need backup now, now ...”

Jesus. Waters grabbed his radio, punched buttons. In an instant, all bands had been taken. He could hear something terrible happening right over his head. Shit.

Waters looked up. The geek was gone, and the door to the electrical room was open, but the light inside was still off. Why was the light still off? Without taking his eyes from the open door, he carefully unshouldered his shotgun, pumped a slug into the chamber, and started forward.

Carefully, he moved up to the edge of the door, looked around. Blackness.

“Hey, you,” he said. “You in there?” As he moved inside the darkened room, he felt his mouth go dry.

There was a sudden loud thump to his left, and Waters instinctively dropped to his knee and pumped three rounds, each one a flash of light and a deafening blast.

There was a shower of sparks and a gout of flame [317] licked upward, briefly illuminating the room with lambent orange light. The geek was on his knees, looking up at Waters.

“Don’t shoot!” the geek said, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t shoot anymore!”

Waters raised himself on trembling legs, ears ringing. “I heard a sound,” he cried. “Why didn’t you answer me, you stupid shit?”

“It was the air conditioner,” the geek said, tears streaming down his face. “It was the air-conditioner pump failing, like before.”

Waters backed up, feeling behind him for the wall switch. Gunpowder hung in the air like a blue fog. On the far wall, a large mounted box of metal was smoking from three large, ragged holes in its front casing.

Waters hung his head, sank back against the wall.

With a sudden pop, an electrical arc sliced across the ruined box, followed by a crackling and another shower of sparks. The acrid air grew foul. The lights in the Computer Room flickered, dimmed, brightened. Waters heard one alarm go off, and then another.

“What’s happening?” he shouted. The lights dimmed again.

“You destroyed the central switching box,” the geek cried, rising to his feet and running past him into the Computer Room.

“Oh, shit,” Waters breathed.

The lights went out.