The soft chanting rose once again, and Margo felt herself pulled to her feet. A path was cleared among the shuffling throng, and she could make out the hut of skulls, perhaps twenty feet in front of them. She stared in mute horror at the macabre structure, stained and unclean, grinning a thousand grins. Several figures moved around within it, and great wafts of steam rose above the unfinished roof. It was surrounded by a paling of human longbones indifferently cleaned. Before the entrance, she could make out several ceremonial stone platforms. Inside, through the countless empty eye sockets, she could see the vague form of the sedan chair on which the shaman had been brought in. She wondered what the terrifying apparition within might look like. She was not sure she could bear to see another face such as the one that had leered at her hungrily moments before.
A hand at her back propelled her roughly forward, and she half walked, half stumbled toward the hut. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see D’Agosta struggling with the Wrinklers prodding him along. Smithback, too, was silently resisting. One of them drew a long, evil-looking stone knife from beneath the folds of his cloak and held it to the journalist’s throat.
“Cuchillos de pedernal,” Pendergast murmured. “Isn’t that what the subway survivor told you?”
D’Agosta nodded.
A few feet from the paling, Margo was brought to a halt, then forced to her knees and held along with the others. Around her, the chanting and drumming had increased to a fever pitch.
Suddenly her eyes focused on the stone platforms around the hut. There were several metal objects on the nearest, lovingly arranged as if for some ritual purpose.
Then she caught her breath. “Pendergast?” she croaked.
Pendergast looked toward her inquiringly, and she gestured with her head toward the platform. “Ah,” he whispered. “The larger of the souvenirs. I could only carry the smaller pieces.”
“Yes,” Margo replied urgently, “but I recognize one of these. It’s the handbrake to a wheelchair.”
A look of surprise crossed Pendergast’s face.
“And that piece there is a tipping lever, broken off at the stub.”
Pendergast tried to move toward the platform, but one of the figures forced him back. “This makes no sense,” he said. “Why would such an arrangement be—” He stopped abruptly. “Lourdes,” he said in a low whisper.
“I don’t understand,” Margo answered. But Pendergast said nothing more, his eyes now fixed on the figure inside the hut.
There was a rustling from within, then a small procession began to emerge. Cloaked figures stepped out in groups of two, carrying between them large cauldrons of steaming liquid. Around her, the chanting increased until it seemed to Margo one long, monotonous cacophony. The Wrinklers seated the cauldrons into depressions beaten into the floor of the Pavilion. Then the sedan chair emerged, covered in dense black material, flanked by four bearers. The bearers processed with measured step around the bone paling. Reaching the farthest, largest stone platform, they carefully placed the sedan chair upon it. The supports were drawn away, the covering removed, and the lieutenants moved slowly back into the hut.
Margo stared at the shadowed figure in the chair, his features invisible in the darkness, the only observable movement the slight flexing of thick fingers. The chanting ebbed, then swelled again, taking on an unmistakable undertone of anticipation. The figure raised his hand suddenly, and the chanting ceased in an instant. Then, as he leaned forward, the flickering firelight slanted across his face.
For Margo, it was as if time itself were suspended for a brief, terrible instant. She forgot the fear, the aching knees, the detonation timers relentlessly ticking in the dark corridors above her head. The man who sat on the litter made of lashed human bone—dressed in the familiar gabardine pants and paisley tie—was Whitney Frock.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came.
“Oh, my God,” Smithback said behind her.
Frock gazed across the assembled throng, his expression impassive, devoid of emotion. The huge hall was deathly silent.
Slowly, Frock’s eyes swept forward to the prisoners before him. He looked at D’Agosta, then Smithback, then Pendergast. When his gaze reached Margo, he started suddenly. Something kindled in his eyes.
“My dear,” he said. “How truly unfortunate. Frankly, I didn’t expect to see you as science advisor for this little outing, and I am indeed sorry. No—it’s true, and you needn’t look at me like that. Remember how, when it came time to get rid of that meddlesome Irishman, I spared your life. Against my own better judgment, I might add.”
Margo, reeling in shock and disbelief, could not speak.
“However, it can’t be helped.” The flicker in Frock’s eyes died away. “As for the rest of you, welcome. I think some introductions are in order. For example, who is this hirsute gentleman with the ragged clothes?” He turned to Mephisto. “He has the face of a wild animal caught in a trap, which I suppose is exactly what he is. One of the natives, I imagine, brought along as a guide. I will ask you again, what is your name?”
There was a silence.
He turned to one of his lieutenants. “Cut his throat if he doesn’t answer. We can’t tolerate rudeness, now, can we?”
“Mephisto,” came the sullen reply.
“Mephisto, indeed! A little learning is a dangerous thing. Especially in a derelict. But ‘Mephisto.’ Really, how banal. No doubt meant to strike fear into the hearts of your scabby little followers. You don’t look like much of a devil to me, just a pathetic, drug-addled bum. I should not complain, however: you and your likes have been exceedingly useful, I will admit. Perhaps you will find an erstwhile friend amongst my children…” He swept his hand across the gathered ranks of Wrinklers. Mephisto drew himself up, saying nothing.
Margo stared at her former professor. This was like no Frock she had ever seen before. He had always been diplomatic and soft-spoken. Now there was an arrogance, a cold lack of emotion, that chilled her even beyond the fear and confusion she felt.
“And Smithback, the journalist!” Frock sneered. “Were you brought along to document this intended victory over my children? Pity you won’t be able to tell the real outcome in that scandal sheet you write for.”
“The jury’s still out on that,” Smithback said defiantly.
Frock chuckled.
“Frock, what the hell is all this?” D’Agosta said as he struggled. “You’d better explain, or—”
“Or what?” Frock turned toward the police officer. “I always thought you a crude, ill-bred fellow. But I’m surprised it’s necessary to point out you are in no position to make demands of me. Are they disarmed?” he asked one of the hooded figures closest to him, who nodded slowly in reply.
“Check that one again,” Frock said, pointing to Pendergast. “He’s a tricky devil.”
Pendergast was hauled roughly to his feet, searched, then shoved back to his knees. Frock slowly scanned them with his eyes, smiling coldly.
“That was your wheelchair, wasn’t it?” Pendergast asked quietly, indicating the platform.
Frock nodded. “My best wheelchair.”
Pendergast said nothing. Margo turned to Frock, finding her voice at last. “Why?” she asked simply. Frock looked at Margo for a moment, then signaled his lieutenants. The cloaked forms moved into position behind the huge cauldrons. Frock stood up, jumped down from the sedan chair, and approached the FBI agent on foot.
“This is why,” he replied.
Then he stood proudly, lifting his arms high above his head.
“As I am cured, so shall you be cured!” he cried in a clear, ringing voice. “As I am made whole, so shall you be made whole!”
A loud answering cry came from the assembly. The cry went on and on, and Margo realized it was not an inarticulate cry, but a kind of programmed guttural response. The creatures are speaking, she thought. Or trying to.