D’Agosta threaded his way between the broken columns and moved out into the Hall, dodging the upturned tables and broken chairs. His hand was still bleeding freely. There were several other still forms scattered about, whether dead or alive D’Agosta couldn’t tell. When he heard screaming from the far end of the Hall, he shined his light toward the noise. The metal emergency door was fully shut, and a crowd of people were pressed against it, pounding on the metal and shouting. Some of them turned around as D’Agosta’s light illuminated them.
D’Agosta ran over to the group, ignoring his squawking radio. “Everybody calm down, and move away! This is Lieutenant D’Agosta of the New York City police.”
The crowd quieted a little, and D’Agosta called Ippolito over. Scanning the group, D’Agosta recognized Wright, the Director; Ian Cuthbert, head of this whole [333] farce; some woman named Rickman who seemed pretty important—basically, the first forty or so people who’d entered the exhibition. First in, last out.
“Listen up!” he shouted. “The Security Director’s going to raise the emergency door. Everybody, please step back.”
The crowd moved aside, and D’Agosta involuntarily groaned. There were several limbs pinned under the heavy metal door. The floor was slick with blood. One of the limbs was moving feebly, and he could hear faint screaming from the far side of the door.
“Dear Jesus,” he whispered. “Ippolito, open the son of a bitch.”
“Shine your light over here.” Ippolito pointed to a small keypad next to the door, then crouched and punched in a series of numbers.
They waited.
Ippolito looked nonplussed. “I can’t understand—” He punched in the numbers again, more slowly this time.
“There’s no power,” said D’Agosta.
“Shouldn’t matter,” said Ippolito, frantically punching a third time. “The system’s got redundant backups.”
The crowd started to murmur.
“We’re trapped!” one man yelled.
D’Agosta whirled his light onto the crowd. “All of you, just calm down. That body in the exhibition has been dead at least two days. You understand? Two days. The murderer’s long gone.”
“How do you know?” shouted the same man.
“Shut up and listen,” said D’Agosta. “We’re going to get you out of here. If we can’t open the door, they’ll do it from the outside. It may take a few minutes. In the meantime, I want you all to get away from the door, stick together, find yourself some chairs that aren’t broken, and sit down. Okay? There’s nothing you can do here.”
Wright stepped forward into the light. “Listen, [334] officer,” he said, “We’ve got to get out of here. Ippolito, for the love of God, open the door!”
“Just a moment!” said D’Agosta sharply. “Dr. Wright, please return to the group.” He looked around at the wide-eyed faces. “Are there any physicians here?”
There was a silence.
“Nurses? First aid?”
“I know some first aid,” someone volunteered.
“Great. Mister, ah—”
“Arthur Pound.”
“Pound. Get one or two volunteers to help you. There are several people who look like they got trampled. I need to know number and their condition. I’ve got a guy back at the exhibition entrance, Bailey, who can help you. He’s got a flashlight. We also need a volunteer to help collect some candles.”
A young, lanky fellow in a wrinkled tuxedo came out of the gloom. He finished chewing, swallowed. “I’ll help with that,” he said.
“Name?”
“Smithback.”
“Okay, Smithback. You got matches?”
“Sure do.”
The Mayor stepped forward. His face was smeared with blood and a large purple welt was emerging beneath one eye. “Let me help,” he said.
D’Agosta looked at him with amazement. “Mayor Harper! Maybe you can take charge of everyone. Keep them calm.”
“Certainly, Lieutenant.”
D’Agosta’s radio squawked again, and he grabbed it. “D’Agosta, this is Coffey. D’Agosta, do you read? What the hell’s going on in there? Give me a sit-ref!”
D’Agosta talked fast. “Listen up, I’m not going to say this twice. We’ve got at least eight dead, probably more, and an undetermined number of wounded. I guess you know about the people caught under the door. [335] Ippolito can’t get the fucking door open. There’s about thirty, maybe forty of us here. Including Wright and the Mayor.”
“The Mayor! Shit. Look, D’Agosta, the system’s failed totally. The manual override doesn’t work on this side, either. I’ll get a crew with acetylene to cut you guys out. It may take awhile, this door’s built like a bank vault. Is the Mayor okay?”
“He’s fine. Where’s Pendergast?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Who else is trapped inside the perimeter?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Coffey. “We’re taking reports now. There should be some men in the Computer Room and Security Command, Garcia and a few others. Might be a few on the other floors. We got several plainclothes officers and guards out here. They were pushed out with the crowd, some of them got messed up pretty bad. What the hell happened in the exhibition, D’Agosta?”
“They found the body of one of my men stuffed on top of an exhibit. Gutted, just like the rest.” He paused, then spoke bitterly. “If you’d let me do the sweep I requested, none of this would have happened.”
The radio squawked again and went silent.
“Pound!” D’Agosta called. “What’s the extent of the injuries?”
“We’ve got one man alive, but just barely,” Pound said, looking up from an inert form. “The rest are dead. Trampled. Maybe one or two heart attacks, it’s hard to say.
“Do what you can for the live one,” D’Agosta said.
His radio buzzed. “Lieutenant D’Agosta?” said a scratchy voice. “This is Garcia, in Security Command, sir. We got ...” The voice trailed out in a burst of static.
“Garcia? Garcia! What is it?” D’Agosta shouted into the radio.
“Sorry, sir, the batteries on this mobile transmitter [336] I’m using are weak. We got Pendergast on the honk. I’m patching him over to you.”
“Vincent,” came the familiar drawl.
“Pendergast! Where are you?”
“I’m in the basement, Section Twenty-nine. I understand the power is out throughout the Museum, and that we’re trapped inside Cell Two. I’m afraid I’ve got a little more bad news of my own to add. Could you please move to a spot where we can speak privately?”
D’Agosta walked away from the crowd. “What is it?” he asked in a low tone.
“Vincent, listen to me carefully. There is something down here. I don’t know what it is, but it’s big, and I don’t think it’s human.”
“Pendergast, don’t play with me. Not now.”
“Vincent, I’m entirely serious. That isn’t the bad news. The bad news is, it may be headed your way.”
“What do you mean? What kind of animal is it?”
“You’ll know when it’s near. The smell is unmistakable. What kind of weapons do you have?”
“Let’s see. Three twelve gauges, a couple of service revolvers, two shot pistols loaded with capstun. A few odds and ends, maybe.”
“Forget the capstun. Now, listen, we have to talk fast. Get everyone out of there. This thing went by me just before the lights went out. I saw it through a window in one of the storage rooms down here, and it looked very big. It walks on all fours. I got off two shots at it, then it went into a stairwell at the end of this hall. I’ve got a set of old blueprints here with me, and I’ve checked them. You know where that stairwell comes out?”
“No,” said D’Agosta.
“It only has access to alternate floors. It leads down into the subbasement, too, but we can’t assume the thing would go that way. There’s an egress on the fourth floor. And there’s another one behind the Hall of the Heavens. It’s back in the service area behind the platform.”
[337] “Pendergast, I’m having a hard time with this. What the hell exactly do you want us to do?”
“I’d get your men—whoever has the shotguns—and line up at that door. If the creature comes through, let the thing have it. It may have already comethrough, I don’t know. Vincent, it took a .45 metal-jacketed slug in the skull at close range, and the bullet grazed right off.”