The processions continued to shuffle up to the cauldrons. As the Wrinklers raised the cups to their lips, Margo could see shudders ripple their cloaks—through pleasure or pain, she could not tell.
“And you knew our moves all along,” she heard Pendergast say. “As if you were conducting them yourself.”
“In some ways, I was. I’d trained Margo here too well to hope that she could leave well enough alone. And I knew your busy mind would always be spinning. So I made sure the draining of the Reservoir couldn’t be stopped. Finding one of my wounded children here, the one you shot, merely cemented my conviction. But how clever of you to send your little frogmen in as a precaution. Luckily, my children were all on their way to the Ceremony and prevented them from crashing our little party.” He blinked. “For one so clever, I’m surprised you thought you could come down here and defeat us with your pathetic weapons. But no doubt you misjudged just how numerous my children have become. As you’ve misjudged so much else.”
“I think you’ve left something out of the story, Doctor,” Margo said suddenly, as evenly as she could.
Frock stepped closer to her, an enquiring look on his face. It was very difficult, seeing him move so nimbly on his feet; it made it hard to think straight. She took a deep breath of the noxious air. “I think it was you who killed Kawakita,” she said. “You killed him, and left his body here to look like just another victim.”
“Indeed,” Frock replied. “Why, pray tell?”
“Two reasons,” she said, speaking louder now. “I found Kawakita’s journal in the wreckage of his laboratory. He was clearly having second thoughts. It mentioned thyoxin. I think he had learned about the effect salinity would have on the reovirus, and he was planning to destroy the plants before you could flush them into the Hudson. He may have been warped in mind and body, but in him, at least, some small voice of conscience must have remained.”
“My dear, you don’t understand. You cannot understand,” said Frock.
“And you killed him because he knew the drug’s effects were irreversible. Isn’t that right? I learned that much through my own experiments. You can’t cure these people, and you know it. But do they?”
The chanting in the ranks around them seemed to falter slightly, and Frock glanced briefly from side to side. “These are the claims of a desperate woman. This is beneath you, my dear.”
They’re listening, Margo thought. Perhaps they can still be convinced.
“Of course,” the voice of Pendergast intruded on her thoughts. “Kawakita fell into this ceremony, this dispensing of the drug, because it seemed the easiest way to keep his own poor victims docile. But he didn’t especially enjoy the trappings or the ritual. He didn’t take them seriously. That was your addition. As an anthropologist, how you must have enjoyed the chance to create your own cult. Minions—or perhaps acolytes—wielding primitive knives. Your own hut of skulls. A reliquary for your wheelchair, symbol of your own transformation.”
Frock stood stiffly, saying nothing.
“That’s the real reason the killings have been increasing. It’s not lack of the drug anymore, is it? Now you’ve got a reservoir full. No—there’s another agenda. An obsessive one. An architectural one.” He nodded toward the hut. “You needed a temple for your new religion. For your personal deification.”
Frock looked at Pendergast, his lips twitching. “And why not? Every new age needs its new religion.”
“But it’s still a ceremony at its core, isn’t it? And everything relies on control. If these creatures know the effects are irreversible, what hold will you have on them?”
Murmurs were rising from among the closest Wrinklers.
“Enough!” Frock cried, clapping his hands. “We don’t have much time. Prepare them!” Margo felt her arms seized again, then she was dragged to her feet, a knifepoint placed against her throat. Frock looked at her, a strange mix of expressions again playing across his face. “I wish you could be here to experience the change for yourself, Margo. But many must fall in the transition. I am sorry.”
Smithback lunged toward Frock, but was dragged back.
“Dr. Frock!” Pendergast cried. “Margo was your student. Remember how the three of us struggled against the Museum Beast. Even now, you’re not wholly responsible for what’s happened. Perhaps there is still a way for you to go back. We’ll heal your mind.”
“And destroy my life?” Frock leaned toward the FBI agent, lowering his voice to whisper. “Go back to what, may I ask? Being a helpless, superannuated, slightly ridiculous curator emeritus? One whose years are rapidly dwindling? Surely Margo’s research showed you there is another side effect to the new drug: it eliminates the concentration of free radical molecules in living tissue. In short, it extends life! You would have me give up both my freedom of movement and my life?” He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes to twelve. We’re out of time.”
There was a sudden puff of wind, and a series of small dust clouds arose from the skulls forming the top rank of the hut. Almost immediately, there was a sharp rattling noise, and Margo realized she was hearing the sound of automatic weapons fire.
There was a strange popping sound—then another—and suddenly the entire Pavilion exploded in a burst of brilliant light. Screams and squeals of pain sounded from all sides. There was another burst, and the knifepoint vanished from her neck. Margo shook her head, stunned, temporarily blinded by the fierce glare. The chanting died away into confusion, and Margo heard angry howls arise from the group. While her eyes were closed, there was yet another burst of light, accompanied by more screams of pain. Margo felt one of the Wrinklers drop his hold. With the instinctive speed of desperation, she twisted out of the grasp of her other captor and lunged toward the ground, rolling away, scrambling onto her hands and knees, blinking desperately in an effort to restore her sight. As the spots of black and white began to clear, she could see several plumes of smoke rising from the floor, burning impossibly bright. Wrinklers everywhere had fallen to the ground, pawing at their faces, hiding their heads beneath their cloaks, convulsing with pain. Nearby, Pendergast and D’Agosta had also broken free and were rushing to the aid of Smithback.
Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and one side of the hut collapsed in a gout of flame. A shrapnel cloud of shattered bone flew across the closest ranks.
“Some of the SEALs must still be alive,” Pendergast shouted, pulling Smithback toward them. “That shooting is coming from the platform outside the Pavilion. Let’s head for it while we still can. Where’s Mephisto?”
“Stop them!” Frock boomed, shading his own eyes. But the blinded Wrinklers milled about in confusion.
Just then another shell landed in the clearing before the hut, bursting the paling into countless pieces and shattering two of the cauldrons. A great gush of steaming liquid began pouring across the floor, gleaming in the torchlight. Cries of dismay rose from the Wrinklers, and several of those on the ground nearby began to lap up the precious fluid. Frock was shouting, gesturing in the direction from which the shells had come.
D’Agosta and the others ran toward the free ground at the rear of the hut. Margo hesitated, looking around desperately for her carryall. The intense light was dropping, and a few of the creatures were beginning to shamble toward them now, hands up against the glare, stone knives glinting evilly.
“Dr. Green, now!” Pendergast cried.