There was a stirring in the darkness, then Mephisto came forward, arms folded across his chest, a wide smirk on his whiskered lips.
“I was just enjoying this touching reunion,” he said, in his silky hiss. “Now the merry band of adventurers is complete. Ho, scriblerian! I see you’ve descended farther than you dared venture on our first meeting. Grows on you, doesn’t it?”
“Not especially,” Smithback replied in a low voice.
“How nice, at least, to have one’s own Boswell at hand.” In the artificial light of the goggles, it seemed to Margo that Mephisto’s eyes glittered gold and crimson as they surveyed the group. “Will you compose an epic poem on the event? The Mephistiad. In heroic couplets, please. That’s assuming you live to tell the tale. I wonder which of us will survive, and which will leave their whitened bones to lie here, forever, in the tunnels beneath Manhattan?”
“Let’s move on,” Pendergast said.
“I see. Whitey here feels there has been enough talk. Perhaps he fears it will be his bones left to the rats.”
“We need to set several series of charges directly below the Bottleneck,” Pendergast said smoothly. “If we stand here listening to your empty posturing, we won’t have time to exit before the Reservoir dumps. Then it will be your bones, as well as mine, that are left for the rats.”
“Very well, very well!” Mephisto said. “Don’t chafe.” He turned and began clambering down a large, dark tube.
“No,” Smithback said.
D’Agosta took a step toward the journalist. “Come on. I’ll take your hand.”
The vertical tube ended in a high-ceilinged tunnel, and they waited in the darkness while Pendergast set several sets of charges, then motioned them on. A few hundred yards down the tunnel, they arrived at a walkway that crossed a few feet above the level of the water. Margo felt grateful; the ankle-deep stream had been cold and foul.
“Well!” whispered Mephisto, climbing on the walkway. “Perhaps the Mayor of Grant’s Tomb can finally dry out his wingtips.”
“Perhaps the Hobo King can finally shut up,” D’Agosta growled.
A delighted hiss came from Mephisto. “Hobo King. Charming. Perhaps I should go hunting track rabbits and leave you to do your own spelunking.”
D’Agosta stiffened but held his tongue, and Mephisto led the way across the walkway into a crawl space beyond. Margo heard the roar of falling water in the distance, and soon the passage ended at a narrow waterfall. A narrow iron ladder, almost concealed by the ordure of many decades, descended into a vertical tunnel at the base of the falls.
They passed through the tunnel one at a time, dropping to an irregular bedrock floor beneath the confluence of two seventy-two-inch mains. The narrow boreholes of explosive drills lined the walls like the work of disorderly termites.
“Nous sommes arrivés,” said Mephisto, and for the first time Margo thought she could detect nervousness behind the bluster. “The Devil’s Attic is directly beneath us.”
Motioning them to stay put, Pendergast checked his maps and then vanished noiselessly into the ancient tunnel. As the seconds turned to minutes, Margo found herself ready to jump at every drop of water from the mossy ceiling, at every stifled sneeze or restless stirring. Once again, she questioned her own motives for coming along. It was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the fact that she was hundreds of feet underground, in an obscure and long-forgotten warren of service passageways, railroad tunnels, and other spaces even more obscure, with a lurking foe that at any moment might…
There was a movement in the dark beside her. “Dear Dr. Green,” came the silky hiss of Mephisto. “I’m sorry you decided to join our little walkabout. But since you’re here, maybe you can do me a favor. Please understand I have every intention of letting your friends here take all the risk. But if something unpleasant should happen, maybe you could deliver something for me.” Margo felt a small envelope being thrust into her hand. Curiously, she began to lift it toward her goggles.
“No!” said Mephisto, catching her hand and thrusting it into her own pocket. “Plenty of time for that later. If necessary.”
“Why me?” Margo asked.
“Who else?” came the hiss. “That slippery G-man, Pendergast? Or maybe the large economy model of our city’s finest, standing over there? Or Smithback, the yellow journalist?”
There was a rapid footfall in the darkness, then Pendergast was back within the dim circle of their flashlights. “Excellent,” he said as Mephisto melted from her side. “Up ahead is the catwalk where I made my own descent. The charges under the Bottleneck should take care of the main Reservoir flow to the south. Now we’ll set the rest of the charges to block off any spillage from feeders beneath the north end of the Park.” The matter-of-fact tone of his voice was more appropriate for a croquet party, Margo thought, than this nightmare stalk. But she was grateful for it.
Pendergast grasped the handle of the flamethrower, undipped the nozzle guard, and pressed the primer a few times. “I’ll go first,” he said. “Then Mephisto. I trust your instincts; let me know if you sense anything wrong or out of place.”
“Being here is out of place,” Mephisto said. “Ever since the Wrinklers arrived, this has been shunned ground.”
“Margo, you’ll be next,” Pendergast continued. “Take care of Smithback. Vincent, I’d like you to cover the rear. There might be a conflict.”
“Right,” D’Agosta said.
“I’d like to help,” Margo heard Smithback say softly.
Pendergast looked at him.
“I’m useless without a weapon,” the writer explained, his voice unsteady but determined.
“Can you handle a gun?” Pendergast asked.
“Used to shoot skeet with a 16-gauge,” Smithback said.
D’Agosta stifled a laugh. Pendergast pursed his lips a moment, as if calculating something. Then he unslung the other weapon from his shoulder and passed it over. “This is an M-79. It fires 40-millimeter high-explosive rounds. Be sure you’ve got a kill zone of at least one hundred feet before you use it. D’Agosta can describe to you how to reload as we go. I expect if action starts, there will be plenty of light for you to see with.”
Smithback nodded.
“The thought of a journalist with a grenade launcher makes me very nervous,” came D’Agosta’s voice out of the darkness.
“We’ll set the charges, then leave,” Pendergast said. “Fire only as a last resort; the sound will bring the entire nest down upon us. Vincent, set the flash unit to strobe, and use it at the first sign of trouble. We’ll blind them first, then fire. Be sure to remove your goggles first—the flash unit will overload them. We know they hate light, so once they know we’re here, let’s use it to our advantage.” He turned. “Margo, just how sure are you about the vitamin D?”
“One hundred percent sure,” she answered immediately. Then she paused. “Well, ninety-five percent, anyway.”
“I see,” the FBI agent replied. “Well, if there’s a confrontation, you’d better use your pistol first.”
Pendergast took a final look around, then began cautiously leading the group down the ancient tunnel. Margo could see D’Agosta leading the journalist forward, gripping his arm tightly. After about fifty yards, Pendergast raised his hand. One by one, they all stopped. Very slowly, he brought a warning finger to his lips. Reaching into a pocket of his jacket, he removed a lighter and held it close to the nozzle of the flamethrower. There was a puff, a flash of light, and a low hiss. A tiny blue pilot flame played around the end of the copper nozzle.
“Smores, anyone?” Mephisto murmured.
Margo breathed through her nose, struggling to stay calm. The air was heavy with the combined reek of methane and ammonia. And overlying them both was a faint goatish odor she knew only too well.