“You see those guys?” a young woman with a Columbia T-shirt was saying. “What the heck was that thing on his back?”
“Probably rat poison,” said her companion. “They grow ’em big down here, you know. Just last night, at the West Fourth Street Station, I saw one that must have been the size of a full grown—”
“Where’d they go?” Margo interrupted breathlessly.
“They just jumped on to the express tracks and ran uptown—”
Margo dashed to the north end of the platform. Ahead, she could see the subway tracks stretching into the darkness ahead. Small, stagnant pools lay between the rails, shimmering a faint green in the lights of the infrequent switches. She looked back down the track quickly to ensure no train was approaching, then took a deep breath and jumped down onto the track.
“There goes another!” she heard someone shout behind her. Hoisting the carryall to a more comfortable position, she began to run, trying hard not to stumble on the gravel bed or the uneven surface of the railroad ties. She squinted ahead into the distance, trying vainly to make out shapes or silhouettes. She opened her mouth to shout Pendergast’s name, then abruptly closed it again: it was farther up this very line, after all, that the subway massacre had occurred not so long before.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a puff of wind raise the hair at the back of her neck. She turned, and her heart sank: behind, in the darkness, she could see the circular red symbol of the number four express, distant but unmistakable.
She ran faster, gasping the dense and humid air into her lungs. The train would only stop a moment to load and unload passengers, then it would be off again, gaining speed as it raced toward her. Frantically, she looked around, searching for a workmen’s cutout or some other place she could take shelter. But the tunnel stretched smooth and dark into the distance.
Behind her now she could hear the chimes of the closing doors, the hiss of air brakes, the whirring of the diesels as the train gathered speed. Wildly, she turned toward the only shelter available: the narrow gap between the northbound and southbound lanes. Stepping gingerly over the third rail, she cowered between rusting girders, trying to make herself thinner than the track switch that stood beside her like a dark sentinel.
The train neared, its whistle shrieking a deafening warning. Margo felt herself blown backward by the concussive blast of its passing, and stretched out her arms, grasping desperately at the girders to keep from sprawling onto the southbound tracks. The cars passed in a flash of bright windows, like a reel of cinema film trailing horizontally in front of her, and then it was receding northward, rocking slightly to the left and right, spitting a shower of sparks.
Coughing from the mushrooming clouds of dust, her ears ringing, Margo stepped back onto the tracks and looked quickly in both directions. Ahead, in the red glow of the receding train, she could make out three figures, emerging from a distant break in the tunnel wall.
“Pendergast!” she shouted. “Agent Pendergast, wait!”
The figures stopped, then turned to face her. As she sprinted forward, she could now make out the narrow features of the FBI agent, staring motionlessly in her direction.
“Dr. Green?” came the familiar drawl.
“Jesus Christ, Margo!” the voice of D’Agosta snapped angrily. “What the hell are you doing here? Pendergast told you—”
“Shut up and listen!” Margo hissed, coming to a stop before them. “I figured out what Kawakita was doing with the vitamin D he was synthesizing in his lab. It had nothing to do with the plant, or glaze, or anything. He was making a weapon.”
Even in the dark, she could make out the disbelief on D’Agosta’s features. Mephisto stood behind him, silent and watching, like a dark apparition.
“It’s true,” she panted. “We know the Wrinklers hate light. Correct? But it’s more than hatred. They fearit. Light is deadly to them.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Pendergast said. “It’s not the light itself, actually. It’s what the light creates.Sunlight falling on skin activates vitamin D. Right? If this were poisonous to the creatures, direct light would cause them great pain, even death. That’s why some of my inoculated cultures died. They were left under the lamp overnight. And that might even explain how the Wrinklers got their name. Skin lacking in vitamin D tends to have a wrinkled, leathery appearance. And vitamin D deficiency causes osteomalacia, softening of the bones. Remember how Dr. Brambell said Kawakita’s skeleton looked almost as if it had suffered a nightmarish case of scurvy? Well, it had.”
“But this is all guesswork,” D’Agosta said. “Where’s the proof?”
“Why else would Kawakita have been synthesizing it?” Margo cried. “Remember, it was equally poisonous to him. He knew the creatures would be after him if he destroyed their plant supply. And then, lacking the drag, they would go on a killing rampage. No, he had to kill both the plants andthe creatures.”
Pendergast was nodding. “It appears to be the only possible explanation. But why have you come all this way to tell us about it?”
Margo slapped her carryall. “Because I’ve got three liters of vitamin D in solution, right here.”
D’Agosta snorted. “So? We’re not exactly short of firepower here.”
“If there’s as many of them down there as we think, you couldn’t carryenough firepower to stop all of them,” Margo said. “Remember what it took to bring down Mbwun?”
“Our intention is to avoid any encounters,” Pendergast said.
“But you sure aren’t taking any chances, with all those weapons you’re toting,” Margo replied. “Bullets may hurt them. But this”—she gestured at her pack—“gets them where they live.”
Pendergast sighed. “Very well, Dr. Green,” he said. “Pass it over. We’ll divide the bottles among ourselves.”
“No way,” Margo said. “ Icarry the bottles. And I come along.”
“Another train’s coming,” Mephisto interjected.
Pendergast was silent a moment. “I already explained that it’s not—”
“I’ve come this far!” Margo said, hearing the anger and determination in her own words as she spoke. “There’s no way in hell I’m going back now. And don’t tell me again how dangerous it is. You want me to sign something indemnifying the authorities in case I scratch myself? Fine. Pass it over.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Pendergast sighed deeply “Very well, Dr. Green. We can’t waste any more time arguing. Mephisto, take us below.”
= 54 =
SMITHBACK FROZE IN the tunnel, listening. There were the footsteps again, seemingly more distant this time. He breathed deeply several times, swallowing hard, trying to force his heart back down out of his throat. In the dark, he’d lost his way in the narrow passages. He was no longer even sure he was moving in the right direction. For all he knew, he’d turned himself around completely and was heading back toward the killers, whoever or whatever they were. Yet instinct told him he was still heading away from the scene of horrible butchery. The slick-walled passages still seemed to lead in only one direction: down.
The hideous creatures he had seen were the Wrinklers, he was sure of that. The ones Mephisto had been raving about, maybe the ones that had killed all those people in the subway. Wrinklers. In the space of a few minutes, they’d killed at least four men… Waxie’s screams seemed to echo and reecho in his ears until he wasn’t sure what was real and what was merely memory.
Then another, very real, sound intruded into his thoughts: the footsteps again, and very close. He twisted around in panic, looking for a place to run. Suddenly there was a bright light in his eyes, and behind it a figure loomed toward him. Smithback tensed for a fight he hoped would be mercifully short.