The Tybane Inscriptions, as she understood it — and as the body of McCool gave evidence to — comprised a series of five symbols. Four had a match in this book: the avatars, apparently, of four demons.
Near the end of the manuscript, she came across the final symbol of the Tybane Inscriptions:
The Latin inscription was Errantem Locus, meaning “wandering place.”
Constance paused, looking up from the manuscript. There was still a lot more to decipher. But she was now sure of one thing: the Tybane Inscriptions were genuine. They were not the product of a crazy fantasist. They had been created by someone truly dedicated to Satan and the worship of the dark arts.
24
Sergeant Gavin manned the tiller again as the incoming tide bore the boat forward, deeper into the salt marshes. Once again Pendergast sat in the bow, consulting a map and moving only to point directions, leading them up a seeming infinitude of channels.
Gavin wondered what the heck Pendergast was doing again in the marshes. But he kept his mouth shut. He realized a man like Pendergast was the kind who simply did what he wanted, without explanations, apologies, or justification. Nevertheless, he was convinced this would end up a wild-goose chase. It seemed obvious that the killings of the historian and the lawyer were banal, most likely the work of drug addicts trying to cover up their robberies with symbols, which were known to at least some locals familiar with the story of the Tybane Inscriptions. Pendergast had given him some nonsense about looking for the Gray Reaper. But as he eyed the bulky metal detector lying athwart the skiff’s seats, poking out of a partially zipped-up bag, he wondered: What was Pendergast going to do with that?
The hand pointed, Gavin turned. He really wished Pendergast had not insisted that he pilot the boat. There were plenty of others who could have done it. But Pendergast had particularly asked for him, and since the autopsy on Dunwoody wasn’t going to take place until the next day, the chief agreed.
This time, they were way the hell out in the marshes. They were completely surrounded; all you could see for 360 degrees around was grass and water under a gray, late-afternoon sky.
Pendergast held up his hand, and with a gesture indicated Gavin was to throttle down. Gavin did so, putting the engine into neutral. The boat continued drifting on the current.
“We seem to have taken a wrong turn, Sergeant Gavin.”
Gavin shrugged. “You’ve got the GPS. I’ve been totally lost for a while.”
“One moment.” Pendergast spent a few minutes working the GPS and checking the map, back and forth, back and forth. “Let us backtrack.”
With a suppressed sigh Gavin turned the boat around and maneuvered upcurrent at half speed. They emerged into a broader channel.
“This way,” said Pendergast.
Yet another endless series of channels — and then he once again held up his hand. “This is it.”
Gavin stared at the mud embankment and the sea of grass beyond, which seemed to rise into the faintest of hills. He had a sudden bad feeling.
“If you don’t mind, Sergeant, please stay with the boat and wait for me.”
Gavin glanced at his watch. “It’s going to be dark in an hour. After that it’ll be hard to navigate.”
“I shall be back well before then.” He grabbed the equipment bag and climbed out of the boat. In a moment he had disappeared into the grass.
Gavin shifted on the hard metal seat. The bad feeling began to deepen. Of course, he could just take off and strand Pendergast there. But if he did that, the shit would really hit the fan. You just didn’t mess with a guy like Pendergast.
A. X. L. Pendergast knifed his way through the salt grass, bending it aside with one arm while slinging the equipment bag over the other shoulder. Every minute seemed to grow colder and grayer than the last, with that penetrating, barbaric cold so prevalent near the sea.
Pendergast paused several times to check his GPS. After about ten minutes, he arrived at the place where he had found the object the night before — and what, apparently, were the remains of an old settlement.
Of course, his goal was not — as he had told Sergeant Gavin — to search for the Gray Reaper, whatever that creature might or might not be.
Unrolling the map, he first oriented himself, then walked ahead until he was on top of the starting waypoint. He then assembled the metal detector, affixing the shaft onto the box, attaching the search coil, and fitting the earphones to his ears. He adjusted several dials, calibrating the device. And then, taking a careful bearing with his GPS, he began walking forward slowly, sweeping the soggy ground with the coil, back and forth, keeping his eye on the LED screen. He went about fifty feet, moved to a new line two feet parallel, then returned to the starting point, and turned again.
In about five minutes he got a squawk. Laying the machine aside, he knelt and, with a trowel, began to dig with the utmost care. The ground was spongy and soft, with no rocks or gravel, but veined with a tangle of grass roots that had to be cut by the edge of the trowel.
About a foot down, he stopped and took a small probe from his pocket, gently pushing it into the ground. Something prevented its descent. He probed around to determine an outline, withdrew the probe, dug some more with the trowel — and uncovered a peculiar disk-like object, a large coin or medallion, rudely cast in pot metal. On it was die-stamped a symboclass="underline" one he recognized immediately as belonging to the Tybane Inscriptions. According to Constance — who had emailed him a detailed report in midafternoon, along with photos, just before starting back for Exmouth — this represented the demon Forras.
He marked it on the map. With the previous discovery, he now had two outer points of the quincunx.
Carefully measuring his steps, he walked to where he estimated the third point would be, employed the metal detector, and uncovered a third pot-metal coin. This was followed by a fourth, each containing the symbols of another demon. None of them, oddly, represented Morax.
These four outer points, by their positions, betrayed the location of the central point in the quincunx: the so-called “altar” mentioned in the Sutter documents that Constance had examined. He moved to that point and knelt, pushing aside and tearing out the grass. This was where Sutter had apparently recovered the Tybane Stone itself, but there was no evidence left of that excavation, which had taken place a hundred and fifty years before.
Again Pendergast employed the metal detector; again it squawked. He cleared out an area about two feet square around the site and began to dig. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d left Gavin with the boat, which allowed him plenty of time. He worked slowly, until he had deepened the hole to about eighteen inches. With the detector, he narrowed the location of the still-buried metal object, and, with exquisite care, employed the probe.
It was perhaps another twelve inches down. Now he abandoned the trowel and began digging with his bare hands, until his fingers closed around something hard. He carefully cleared away the roots and dirt until the object was exposed, cleaned it as best he could, photographed it in situ, and then pried it from the soil.
It was a most peculiar object. The central part was made of the same pot metal — a mixture, he guessed, of lead and tin. It was in a strange, wild shape — the quasi-abstract image of a gaping, devouring mouth, full of crooked teeth, in the act of swallowing what appeared to be a coil of intestines. As Pendergast examined it, he realized it had been formed by pouring molten pot metal into water, where it had frozen into a hideous shape — accidentally, but in an uncannily demonic form. This twisted, bubbled mass of metal had been framed in a setting of silver, with the remains of something tied to it — horsehair, it seemed, and a fragment of rotten bone, preserved only by virtue of the anaerobic characteristics of the soil. And stamped into the silver was the symbol of Morax, the ape-headed demon with dog’s teeth and a devil’s tail.