Still firing wildly, Mourdock fumbled with the gearshift, trying to maneuver it into drive…but just then a hand snaked out, plastering itself onto his face, those blunt nails curling around his cheekbones and spastically tightening.
“Ahhmmmmmm!” Mourdock, feeling the foul-smelling palm pressed against his nose and mouth, the nails sinking deep into his flesh, tried to scream and pull away; there was an agonizing wet jerk and his voice was released in a spray of blood as his flesh parted from his skull, and then he heard a hoarse gasping sound so close he wondered where it could have come from, until he realized it had come from himself.
Agent Pendergast had lost the trail of the killer just south of town, but he sensed, from the purposeful beeline, that it was headed for Crow Island. And now, as he crossed the road that traversed the marshes and led to the beach, he saw a police car—the chief’s squad car. The headlights were off, but the engine was running. Through the gusting rain he detected movement.
Suddenly, a figure leapt up onto the hood, then scurried crab-like down the front grille just as a flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the vehicle. In a moment, it was dark again. But in that moment, Pendergast saw something freakish and bizarre, something so far out of his experience as to be inexplicable: a tall, bony, emaciated man, completely naked, covered with countless cuts and scars, with a bald head, a dog’s face, and a long, forked tail with a hairy knob at the end.
And then it was gone.
Pulling out his Les Baer, Pendergast raced toward the patrol car. He saw the creature moving away at the speed of a running dog, then loping off the road—heading toward the wildlife refuge and Crow Island.
He turned his attention to the squad car. The windshield was opaque, coated with blood from the inside. The back door, however, was open, its window broken and missing. Grasping the frame, he leaned in. His flashlight beam revealed Chief Mourdock. The man was sprawled across the front seat. He was all too obviously dead.
Pendergast withdrew from the car and jogged to the spot where the unearthly creature had left the road. Gun at the ready, he followed the tracks through the sand to the fence edging the wildlife preserve, which the creature had evidently leapt over. On the far side the tracks continued, straight as a compass line. Pendergast paused long enough to mentally visualize a map of the area, quickly realizing that the straight line ended at Oldham.
Constance was at Oldham.
He broke into a run, acutely aware that the creature was twice as fast as he was.
49
Constance moved cautiously through the labyrinth of tunnels. While dirty, stinking, and encrusted with niter, she could tell that these passageways had not been abandoned. Quite the opposite: they had been kept up with fresh mortar and braced with wooden beams at various weak points. Some of the bracing was so recent that the wood was still oozing pine sap. While the entrance had been carefully left looking derelict and deserted, these underground tunnels themselves were clearly well-used.
What were they for? And who were the people using them? She had ideas about that.
In attempting to follow the sound of the crying child, she had managed to lose it in the winding passageways. The tunnels, and the movement of air through them, did deceiving things to sound, magnifying it in one place and canceling it in another. As her light flashed over the walls, she saw—sometimes scratched into the niter, other times written in chalk or paint—symbols not unlike the Tybane Inscriptions: witchcraft symbols she recognized from the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, but of an even more complex and sophisticated nature. What before had been merely suspicion now hardened into conviction: these tunnels, she realized, must be in use by a cult, not Wiccans but real witches—black witches.
She paused, considering the cruel irony. The rumors and legends, dismissed by almost everyone, had a basis in truth: witches had indeed fled from Salem during the trials, established a colony in the marshes, and then moved here, to Oldham, when the marsh colony proved unsafe. The entrance to these tunnels lay underneath the pseudo-church—what better way to cover up their Sunday rituals from prying eyes?
The residents of Oldham, she knew, had moved to Dill Town seventy-five years before, and many had migrated from there into Exmouth proper—where they undoubtedly remained even now, living apparently normal lives, but retreating here for their dark rituals. Constance wondered which of the numerous townsfolk she had met since arriving here were secretly part of this coven.