Margo unlocked the first door and peered into the gloom. “Mr. Pendergast?” she called out. Metal shelves stacked with enormous bones rose out of the gloom. A big dinosaur skull, the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, sat near the door on a wooden skid, still partially encased in matrix, black teeth gleaming dully.
“Next!” said Frock.
The lights dimmed.
No answer in the next storage room, either.
“One more try,” Frock said. “Over there, across the hall.”
Margo stopped at the indicated door, marked [327] PLEISTOCENE—12B, noting as she did so a stairwell door at the far end of the hall. She was pushing open the storage room door as the lights flickered a second time.
“This is—” she began.
Suddenly, a sharp explosion resounded down the narrow hall. Margo looked up, heart pounding, trying to locate the source of the noise. It seemed to have come from around a corner they had not yet explored.
Then the lights went out.
“If we wait a moment,” Frock said finally, “the emergency backup system will come on.”
Only the faint creaking of the building pierced the silence. The seconds stretched into a minute, two minutes.
Then Margo noticed a strange smell, goatish, fetid, almost rank. With a sob of despair, she remembered where she had smelled it once before: in the darkened exhibition.
“Do you—?” she whispered.
“Yes,” hissed Frock. “Get inside and lock the door.”
Breathing fast, Margo groped at the doorframe. She called out quietly as the smell grew stronger. “Dr. Frock? Can you follow the sound of my voice?”
“There’s no time for that,” came his whisper. “Please, forget about me and get inside.”
“No,” said Margo. “Just come toward me slowly.”
She heard his chair rattle. The smell was growing overpowering, the earthy, rotting odor of a swamp, mixed with the sweet smell of warm raw hamburger. Margo heard a wet snuffling.
“I’m right here,” she whispered to Frock. “Oh, hurry, please.”
The darkness seemed oppressive, a suffocating weight. She cringed against the doorframe, flattening herself to the wall, fighting down an urge to flee.
In the pitch black, wheels rattled and the chair bumped gently against her leg. She grabbed its handles and pulled Frock inside. Turning, she slammed the door [328] closed, locked it, and then sank to the floor, her body rocked by noiseless sobs. Silence filled the room. There was a scraping on the door, soft at first, then louder and more insistent. Margo shrank away, banging her shoulder against the frame of the wheelchair. In the dark, she felt Frock gently take her hand.
= 48 =
D’Agosta sat up amid the broken glass, grabbed for his radio, and watched the retreating backs of the last guests, their screams and shouts fading.
“Lieutenant?” One of his officers, Bailey, was getting up from underneath another broken case. The Hall was a shambles: artifacts broken and scattered across the floor; broken glass everywhere; shoes, purses, pieces of clothing. Everybody had left the gallery except D’Agosta, Bailey, and the dead man. D’Agosta looked briefly at the headless body, registering the gaping wounds in the chest, the clothing stiffened by dried blood, the man’s insides generously exposed like so much stuffing. Dead for some time, apparently. He looked away, then looked back quickly. The man was wearing a policeman’s uniform.
“Bailey!” he shouted. “Officer down! Who is this man?”
Bailey came over, his face pale in the dim light. [330] “Hard to say. But I think Fred Beauregard had a big old Academy ring like that.”
“No shit,” D’Agosta whistled under his breath. He bent closer, got the badge number.
Bailey nodded. “That’s Beauregard, Loo.”
“Christ!” D’Agosta said, straightening up. “Wasn’t he on his forty-eight?”
“That’s correct. Last tour was Wednesday afternoon.”
“Then he’s been in here since—” D’Agosta started. His face hardened into a scowl. “That fucking Coffey, refusing to sweep the exhibition. I’m gonna tear him a new asshole.”
Bailey helped him up. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll bind it up later,” D’Agosta said tersely. “Where’s McNitt?”
“I don’t know. Last I looked, he was caught in the crowd.”
Ippolito stepped from around the far corner, talking into his radio. D’Agosta’s respect for the Security Director went up a notch. He may not be the brightest guy, but he’s got balls when it comes to the pinch.
The lights dimmed.
“There’s panic in the Hall of the Heavens,” said Ippolito, ear at his radio. “They say the security wall is coming down.”
“Those idiots! That’s the only exit!” He raised his own radio. “Walden! You copy? What’s going on?”
“Sir, it’s chaos here! McNitt just came out of the exhibition. He got pretty roughed up in there. We’re at the exhibition entrance, trying to slow the crowd, but it’s no use. There’s a lot of people getting trampled, Lieutenant.”
The lights dimmed a second time.
“Walden, is the emergency door coming down over the exit to the Rotunda?”
“Just a second.” For a moment, the radio buzzed. “Shit, yes! It’s halfway down and still dropping! People [331] are jammed into that door like cattle, it’s gonna crush a dozen or two—”
Suddenly, the exhibition went black. A dull crash of something heavy toppling to the ground momentarily overpowered the cries and screams.
D’Agosta pulled out his flashlight. “Ippolito, you can raise the door with the manual override, right?”
“Right. Anyway, the backup power should come on in a second-
“We can’t wait around for that, let’s get the hell over there. And, for Chrissake, be careful.”
Gingerly, they picked their way back toward the exhibition entrance, Ippolito leading the way through the welter of glass, broken wood, and debris. Broken pieces of once-priceless artifacts lay strewn about. The shouting and screaming grew louder as they neared the Hall of the Heavens.
Standing behind Ippolito, D’Agosta could see nothing in the vast blackness of the Hall. Even the votive candles had guttered. Ippolito was playing his flashlight around the entrance. Why isn’t he moving?D’Agosta wondered irritably. Suddenly, Ippolito jerked backward, retching. His flashlight dropped to the ground and rolled away in the darkness.
“What the hell?” D’Agosta shouted, running forward with Bailey. Then he stopped short.
The huge Hall was a shambles. Shining his flashlight into the gloom, D’Agosta was reminded of earthquake footage he’d seen on the evening news. The platform was broken into several pieces, the lectern splintered and shattered. The bandstand was deserted, chairs toppled over, crushed instruments lying in heaps. The floor was a maelstrom of food, clothing, printed programs, toppled bamboo trees, and trampled orchids, twisted and smashed into a strange landscape by the thousands of panicked feet.
D’Agosta brought the flashlight in toward the exhibition entrance itself. The huge wooden stelae [332] surrounding the entrance had collapsed in giant pieces. D’Agosta could see limp arms and legs protruding from beneath the intricately carved columns.
Bailey rushed over. “There’re at least eight people crushed here, Lieutenant. I don’t think any of them are still alive.”
“Any of them ours?” D’Agosta asked.
“I’m afraid so. Looks like McNitt and Walden, and one of the plainclothesmen. There are a couple of guard’s uniforms here, too, and three civilians, I think.”
“All dead? Every one of them?”
“Far as I can tell. I can’t budge these columns.”
“Shit.” D’Agosta looked away, rubbing his forehead. A loud thud resonated from across the Hall.
“That’s the security door closing,” said Ippolito, wiping his mouth. He knelt at Bailey’s side. “Oh, no. Martine ... Christ, I can’t believe it.” He turned to D’Agosta. “Martine here was guarding the back stairwell. He must have come over to help control the crowd. He was one of my best men ...”