“I’m an anthropologist,” Margo said. “I know these creatures better than anyone. You’re going to need my expertise.”
“Not enough to endanger your life,” said Pendergast. “Dr. Frock’s an anthropologist, too. Shall we wheel him down with us and get his learned opinion on the matter?”
“I was the one who discovered all this. Remember?” Margo realized she was raising her voice.
“She’s right,” said D’Agosta. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.”
“That still doesn’t give us the right to involve her further,” Pendergast replied. “Besides, she’s never been below ground, and she’s not a police officer.”
“Look!” Margo shouted. “Forget my expertise. Forget the help I’ve given you in the past. I’m an expert shot. D’Agosta here can testify. And I’m not going to slow you down, either. If anything, you’ll be panting to keep up with me. It comes down to this: if you get in trouble down there, every extra body you’ve got is going to count.”
Pendergast turned his pale eyes toward her, and Margo could feel the keen force of his stare as it almost seemed to probe her thoughts. “Why exactly do you need this, Dr. Green?” he asked.
“Because—” Margo stopped suddenly, wondering why, in fact, she wanted to descend to that netherworld. It would be so much easier to wish them well, step out of the building, walk home, order dinner from the Thai restaurant on the corner, and crack open that Thackeray novel she’d been meaning to start for the last month.
Then she realized it was not a question of wanting. Eighteen months before, she had stared into the face of Mbwun, seen her reflection in its feral red eyes. Together, she and Pendergast had killed the beast. And she’d thought it was over. They all did. Now she knew better.
“A couple of months ago,” she said, “Greg Kawakita tried to contact me. I never bothered to follow up. If I had, maybe all of this could have been avoided.” She paused. “I need to see this thing finished.”
Pendergast continued to gaze at her appraisingly.
“You brought me back into this, goddammit!” Margo said, rounding on D’Agosta. “It’s the last thing I wanted. But now that I’m here, I need to see it through.”
“She’s right about that, too,” D’Agosta said. “I did bring her into the investigation.”
Pendergast put his hands on Margo’s shoulders in an uncharacteristically physical gesture. “Margo, please,” he said quietly. “Try to understand. Back at the Museum, there was no choice. We were already trapped inside with Mbwun. This is different. We’re walking knowingly into danger. You’re a civilian. I’m sorry, but there it is.”
“For once, I agree with Mayor Whitey.” Mephisto looked at Margo. “You seem like a person of integrity. That means you’re out of place in company like this. So let them get their own official asses killed.”
Pendergast looked at Margo a moment longer. Then, dropping his hands, he turned toward Mephisto. “What’s our route?” he asked.
“The Lexington line, under Bloomingdale’s,” came the response. “There’s an abandoned shaft, about a quarter mile north on the express track. Heads straight into the Park, then angles down toward the Bottleneck.”
“Christ,” D’Agosta said. “Maybe that’s how the Wrinklers ambushed that train.”
“Maybe.” Pendergast fell silent a moment, as if lost in thought. “We’ll need to draw the explosives from C section,” he continued abruptly, moving toward the door. “Let’s go. We’ve got less than two hours.”
“Come on, Margo,” D’Agosta said over his shoulder as he jogged after Pendergast. “We’ll see you out.”
Margo stood motionless, watching the three move quickly toward the outer door of the armory. “Shit!” she cried in a frustrated rage, throwing her carryall to the floor and giving the nearest locker a vicious kick. Then she sank to the floor and put her head in her hands.
= 52 =
SNOW CHECKED THE oversized wall clock. The narrow hands behind the protective metal cage read 10:15 P.M. His eyes traveled across the empty squad room, past the extra tanks and regulators, the torn flippers and oversized masks. His gaze came to rest at last on the mountain of paperwork atop the desk in front of him, and he winced inwardly. Here he was, supposedly recovering from a bacterial infection of the lungs. But he, and the rest of the NYPD dive team, knew that he was actually in the doghouse. The Dive Sergeant had taken him aside, told him what a great job he’d done, but Snow hadn’t believed it. Even the fact that the skeletons he’d discovered had been the start of a big police investigation didn’t make any real difference. The fact was he’d lost it, lost it on his first dive. Even Fernandez didn’t bother to tease him anymore.
He sighed, looking out the grimy window at the long-deserted dock and the dark oily water beyond, glittering in the restless night. The rest of the squad was out after a helicopter crash in the East River earlier in the evening. And there was something big going on in the city, too: his police radio had been squawking nonstop with talk of marches, riots, mobilizations, crowd-control measures. Seemed like the action was everywhere except in his own quiet little corner of the Brooklyn docks. And here he was, filling out reports.
He sighed, stapled some papers into a folder, closed it, and tossed it in the outgoing tray. Dead dog, removed from the Gowanus canal. Cause of death: gunshot wound; ownership unknown; case closed. He slid another folder off the pile: Randolf Rowell, jumper, Triborough Bridge, age 22. Suicide note found in pocket. Cause of death: drowning. Case closed.
As he dropped the file into the bin, he heard the diesel rumble of the launch as it nosed its way into the dock. Back early. The engine sounded different somehow, throatier, he thought. Maybe it needed a tune-up or something.
He heard running footfalls on the wooden dock and suddenly the door burst open: men in black wet suits, no insignia, faces black and green with greasepaint. Twin haversacks of rubber and latex dangled around their necks.
“Where’s the dive team?” barked the forward man, a hulking figure with a Texas accent.
“East River chopper crash,” Snow said. “You the second squad?” He glanced out the window and was surprised to see, not a familiar blue-and-white police boat, but a powerful inboard V-bottom launch, lying low in the water and painted as dark as the men.
“All of them?” the man asked.
“All except me. Who are you?”
“We ain’t your mother’s long-lost nephews, darlin’,” the man said. “We need someone who knows the shortest route into the West Side Lateral, and we need him now.”
Snow felt an involuntary twinge. “Let me radio the Dive Sergeant—”
“No time. What about you?”
“Well, I know the flow grid around the Manhattan shoreline. That’s part of Basic, every police driver has to—”
“Can you bring us in?” the man said brusquely, cutting him off.
“You want to get in the West Side Lateral? Most of the pipes are grilled, or too narrow for a—”
“Just answer the question: yes or no?”
“I think so,” Snow said, his voice faltering a little.
“Your name?”
“Snow. Officer Snow.”
“Get in the boat.”
“But my tanks and suit—”
“We got everything you need. You can suit up on the launch.”
Snow scrambled from his chair, following the men out onto the dock. It didn’t seem to be an invitation he could refuse. “You still haven’t told me who—”
The man paused, one foot on the gunwale of the launch. “Commander Rachlin, Patrol Leader, SEAL Team Blue Seven. Now get a wiggle on.”