“It seems like some kind of ritual,” she whispered.
“Indeed,” Pendergast replied from the darkness beside her. “No doubt this is the other reason that people were never killed on the nights of the full moon. The ritual, whatever it is, is still in place. The question is, who or what is leading it, now that Kawakita has been killed?”
“It’s quite possible there was some kind of coup d’état, Margo said. “In primitive societies, the shaman was often killed and replaced by a rival shaman, usually a dominant figure from within the group.” She watched, intrigued despite the great fear and loathing she felt. “My God. If only Frock could see this.”
“Yes,” Pendergast replied. “If one of these creatures took Kawakita’s place, killing him in the process, that could explain why the murders have grown more numerous and more vicious.”
“Look at how they walk,” Margo whispered. “Almost as if they were bowlegged. Could be incipient scurvy. If they can’t take vitamin D into their systems, that would be a result.”
Suddenly, there was a commotion, a chorus of guttural sound beyond Margo’s field of vision. The group of Wrinklers shuffled apart. There was a low series of calls, and then Margo saw a figure, cloaked and hooded like the rest, being carried slowly into view in a sedan chair made of bone and twisted leather. As she watched, the procession approached the hut, incorporeal in the flickering light. The sedan chair was carried inside, and the swelling of the chant increased, reverberating through the chamber.
“Looks like the shaman’s arrived,” she said breathlessly. “The ceremony, whatever it is, could start at any moment.”
“Hadn’t we better get moving?” she heard D’Agosta mutter. “I hate to spoil this National Geographic moment, but there’s about thirty pounds of high explosive down the hall, just waiting to go off.”
“That’s correct,” Pendergast said. “And one last charge to set.” He placed his hand on Margo’s arm. “We must get moving, Dr. Green.”
“Just a minute, please,” she hissed. There was a sudden stir in the crowd below, and perhaps a dozen cloaked figures came into view, heading directly for the hut. At the entrance they knelt, arranging several small black objects in a semicircle. The chanting continued as a figure stepped out of the hut, bearing two burning torches.
Margo looked closer, trying to determine what the black things were. There were six of them, and from her vantage point, they looked like irregularly shaped rubber balls. Obviously, they were an integral part of the ceremony. The Chudzi tribe of Natal, she remembered, had used round stones, painted white and red, to symbolize the daily cycle of—
Then one of the figures tugged at the nearest object, the black rubber cowl sloughed away, and Margo took an instinctive step backward, smothering a groan of dismay.
Pendergast quickly moved to the opening and stared downwards for a long moment. Then he stood up and stepped away. “We’ve lost the SEAL team,” he said.
Mephisto came forward, glancing down into the flickering space, his long tangle of beard given a Mephistophelean tinge by the ruddy glow. “Now dearies, don’t forget it’s dangerous to swim after a heavy meal,” he muttered to them.
“You think they set their charges before…?” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off in the darkness.
“We’ll just have to hope they did,” Pendergast murmured, sliding the cover back into position. “Let’s set the last charge and leave while there’s still time. Keep in position. Remember, we’re practically in their nest now. Exercise hypervigilance.”
“Hypervigilance.” Mephisto snorted.
Pendergast gazed toward the homeless leader in mild reproof. “We’ll discuss your low opinion of me—and my own opinion of your taste in haute cuisine—some other time,” he said, turning toward the exit.
They left through a passage on the far side of the housing and moved quickly along the passageway. After traveling about a hundred yards, Pendergast stopped short at a spot where a ragged-walled tunnel came up from below to join the main passageway. The drumming could be heard distinctly, issuing up from the narrow tube.
“Odd,” the FBI agent said, gazing at the intersecting tunnel. “This access route isn’t marked on my map. Well, it won’t matter; the last charge should bring down this entire structure of drifts, in any case.”
“They moved forward again, arriving in a few minutes at the entrance to what looked like an old maintenance area. Massive rusted wheels were stacked against one wall, along with what looked to Margo like various types of signaling and switching equipment. A tin lunch box sat on a rotting table; inside, Margo could see the ancient, desiccated skeleton of a half-chicken. The whole place had the air of being abandoned in a hurry.
“God, what a spot,” D’Agosta said. “Makes you wonder what the true story of these tunnels is.”
“Or if anybody still knows it almost a century later,” Pendergast said. He nodded toward a metal-banded door in a far corner, between stacks of dusty equipment. “That’s the maintenance stairway leading down to the Astor Tunnels. Here’s where we’ll set the last charge.” He pulled another brick of explosive from his bag, rolling it in the mud beneath his feet.
“What’s that for?” D’Agosta asked. “Camouflage?”
“Exactly,” came Pendergast’s whispered reply as he molded the charge around the base of a cement pylon. “This is apparently a more heavily trafficked area.” He nodded back down the tunnel in illustration.
“Jesus,” Margo breathed. The floor of the passage they had just come down was lined with the tracks of countless bare feet. She dug for the mask and took a drag of oxygen. The humidity was close to one hundred percent. She took another deep breath from the mask, then offered it to Smithback.
“Thanks,” he said, taking two slow hits. Margo watched as a dull gleam returned to his eyes. His hair hung limply over his forehead, and his shirt was torn and streaked with blood. Poor Bill, she thought. He looks like something that just crawled out of a sewer. Come to think of it, that’s not far wrong.
“What was going on topside?” Margo asked, hoping to draw him out of his thoughts.
“All hell was breaking loose,” the journalist replied, handing the mask back to her solemnly. “In the middle of Wisher’s march, hundreds of mole people began popping up from underground. Right there on Broadway. I heard somebody say the cops teargassed the tunnels under Fifty-ninth Street and the Park.”
“Mole people, scriblerian?” Mephisto hissed. “Yes, we’re mole people. We shun the light, not because of its warmth or its brightness, but because of what it shows us. Venality, and corruption, and countless useless worker ants running on treadmills. ‘A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many / I did not know death had undone so many.’ ”
“Stow it,” D’Agosta snapped. “Just get me back to that venal, corrupt surface, and I promise you can crawl into the deepest shithole you can find and I’ll never come looking for you, ever.”