“Of course, he tried to conceal these ambitions from Frost — but she was too shrewd a judge of character not to have understood what he was up to. As the financial logs and computer forensics show, he suddenly began to make money — vast amounts of money. Two hundred million dollars in three weeks. All perfectly legal and aboveboard. Because, you see, there are no laws against using a time machine to play the market. It was around this point that Frost took the extraordinary step of leaving her rooms and investigating the basement — where she found Ellerby doing the one thing she’d expressly forbidden. This led to their infamous argument, which was overheard by half the staff. But in her elderly state, she could do nothing to stop him.”
“So you’re saying Ellerby found a way to increase the machine’s power,” Coldmoon asked, “to poke a bigger hole in that parallel universe?”
Pendergast nodded. “Your analogy to poking a hole is apt. Because that’s where Ellerby’s story ends — and our murder inquiry begins. And that is where my fourth and last question comes into play.”
“Which was?” Coldmoon asked.
“Was Ellerby’s death connected to the device in the suitcase?” Pendergast replied. “But here we move into more speculative territory that Frost refused to explain to Constance. But it stands to reason that the ‘hole’ Ellerby poked became larger and larger as the machine grew more powerful; Ellerby made more and more money on the market... and then it happened.”
“It?” Coldmoon repeated.
“The hole grew big enough for...” He paused and fixed both of them with glittering eyes. “Something to come through it.”
“Something? What do you mean? From where?”
“From the other side.”
He rose. “But I think the time for explanation is over. It’s time to see this for ourselves.” He glanced toward Constance. “If you’d lead the way, please?”
56
Lying prone at the top of the steps leading to the tomb’s lower level, Wellstone shot clip after clip with his camera, trying not to fill up his second — and last — SD card. Damn, he should have brought more... but then, he’d had no idea he would strike gold like this. And gold was exactly what it was: that last bit, with Betts reassuring the DP and squashing her objections — that little conversation alone was going to hang Betts. There were so many things wrong with this: paranormal fraud, trespassing, and a disgusting lack of respect for the dead. He could even hear footsteps from below crunching the bones from time to time as they dragged power cables back and forth and set up the lights and fog machine.
But what the hell happened in here? he wondered as he waited, camera at the ready. This went beyond mere vandalism. Somebody — more than one person, probably — had gone to a lot of trouble and effort to break up these crypts, haul out the remains, and scatter them around. That wasn’t the work of idle, drunken teenagers. It seemed more like a deliberate attempt to desecrate the resting place of the Hunnicutt family.
Now, down below, they began shooting again. The lighting in the lower level raked into the artificial fog, creating a glowing mist, low-lying and swirly, as Moller continued his charade with the silver wand and obsidian glass. He also had his phony camera out again. Christ, Wellstone wished he’d managed to get his hands on that. But he reminded himself that now, the point was moot: the footage, stills, and audio he’d captured in the last half hour would sink Betts deeper than the Mariana Trench.
A movement of air, foul as if it had emerged from the throat of a ghoul, was drifting up from below. What were they disturbing down there that would exude such a nasty smell? The eddies from below continued, making the atmosphere around him even closer than it already was. It felt almost viscous. Unbidden, images came to Wellstone’s mind: rotting bodies, decaying crypts, the suppurating flesh of the dead exhaling corpse gas. He tried breathing through his mouth.
Now, it seemed, Moller’s bullshit device was leading them toward something inside the slimy mouth of that strange tunnel Wellstone could just make out at the far end of the lower level. And Betts, it seemed, wanted to set up his next shot inside it.
But, Wellstone saw, the crew had finally had enough. There was reluctance — even resistance — to this suggestion. The muscleman spoke up, and Wellstone could hear his words, echoing and distorted within the enclosed space. He didn’t want to go into the tunnel. It was ankle-deep with mud. You could hardly breathe down here. As it was, they’d only be able to fit the Steadicam inside. The DP was backing him up, saying it was dangerous to drag cables through an area with so much water.
Betts argued with them, cajoled them, sweet-talked them. Moller, for his part, remained silent, his equipment at the ready. Gannon continued arguing, saying it was risky; that they shouldn’t be down there, returning to her earlier concern that this could land them in serious trouble.
It didn’t seem that Betts was making any headway. Wellstone moved back a little from the steps, preparing to get out of the mausoleum fast if there was a mutiny.
Betts turned to Moller to draw him into the argument.
Wellstone strained to hear the notes of Moller’s deep, German-accented voice rising up from below. He advocated entering the tunnel. That, after all, was where the source of evil was. The indications were clear, and his instruments were in agreement. This was what they had come to find; this was what they were risking everything to achieve... and if they turned back now, it would all be thrown away, a huge opportunity missed.
Betts rounded on the muscleman and accused him of being a pussy. They could make do on their own, he said disdainfully; the Steadicam had its own light, and Betts himself could carry the other equipment. If she wished, Gannon could hang back at the opening to the tunnel with the others; Betts and Moller would go ahead, with just the Steadicam.
The DP reluctantly agreed to this.
As they broke down the current set and everyone moved to the rear of the lower level of the tomb, where the mouth of the tunnel lay, Wellstone saw yet another opportunity and seized it. He began creeping down the slimy steps, one at a time, keeping out of sight by pressing himself against the darkness of the far wall. The air grew closer and more vile with every step he took.
Near the base of the steps, he found a hiding spot behind a crypt that had been shattered to pieces, the remains of its huge lid leaning out into the stairway. He knelt behind the lid and peered through the viewfinder of his camera. It was a perfect vantage point. From here, he could see everything, shoot everything, his powerful telephoto bringing the action ever so close.
57
At the appointed hour, Senator Drayton climbed down from his bus, which had been driven onto the lawn and parked behind the Confederate monument. With aides before and behind him and his wife at his side, he walked around to the front, mounted the stairs, and strode onto the temporary stage, just as the band struck up “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” He checked the chunky Rolex Presidential on his wrist: nine o’clock precisely. A roar greeted his ears: a medley of clapping, horns, whistles, and noisemakers. He drank it in for a moment, then raised both arms, flashing the victory sign with each hand. The people seated on the great lawn rose up in their thousands as if with one mind, cheering, while the crowds standing in the rear and to either side went equally wild.