A. X. L. Pendergast turned away from the two eviscerated bodies. He backtracked and ran down a side tunnel in the direction the screams had come from, even as they now died away with an ominous rapidity. But almost immediately he came to another division in the tunnel; he paused to listen intently, but in the fresh silence was no longer able to determine from which direction the screams had come.
The extent of the tunnels surprised him. They appeared to have been constructed over a long period of time, perhaps even centuries—clearly, the style of their building changed from one section to another, indicating the work of many years. They had a similar feeling to the catacombs that he had once explored in Rome: a secret place of worship. But there was more to these tunnels, as the bizarre symbols on the walls, the smell of occupation, and other stenches far worse, would attest.
Examining the ground, he took the left-hand branch, as that seemed to his eye the more traveled. It, too, branched several times, but he continued to stay on the more beaten path. After a few minutes, the tunnel turned a corner and he found himself staring at prison bars blocking the way ahead. Set into the bars was a metal door that yawned open. The smell emanating from the cul-de-sac beyond was so foul that it suggested long occupation with an utter lack of either hygiene or toilet facilities.
He flashed his light into the rude cell and saw it ran about a hundred feet back, ending in a wall, with a sleeping area of filthy straw, an overflowing hole for necessities, and a broken table. A steel collar, studded with sharp points, was fastened to a leash of metal links. It was hanging on one of the bare stone walls. Kneeling, he observed the traces of the occupant in the damp, sandy floor—a welter of human bare feet, matching the prints he had been tracking from Exmouth. This was where the killer had been locked up—for a very long time.
He straightened and, shining his penlight, glanced at the padlock that once held the door, now lying open on the ground. What had initially been a cursory inspection suddenly became riveted attention. He picked up the lock and gave it a minute inspection, at one point removing his portable loupe and examining the mechanism. It was an almost new Abloy shrouded steel padlock with a top-loading cylinder, invulnerable to bumping. A most serious lock indeed, and one that would have challenged even Pendergast himself. Yet he could see that it had been interfered with in a subtle, clever, and devious way, so as to make it appear locked when it wasn’t.
Something about the particular method of interference seemed chillingly familiar.
After completing his inspection, he stepped inside the prison and walked to the far end of the cul-de-sac, stepping over filth, old chicken carcasses, pieces of rotting hide, and broken marrow bones. Greasy cockroaches scurried away from the beam of his light. Against the far wall, manacles, cuffs, and chains lay sprawled on the ground, open. These also were advanced, high-tech devices, of recent manufacture. Each manacle and cuff had its own small lock; Pendergast once again examined each lock in turn, his pale features becoming like marble.
The jailers had gone to great care and expense to keep the prisoner absolutely secure. But on their last approach to this jail, they would not have known the locks on the cuffs and manacles had been tampered with—that the creature would be able to free itself and attack them.
No doubt those jailers were the two bodies he had come across in an earlier passage.
As he examined the final lock, his normally steady hand began to tremble, and he dropped the chain. His knees gave way and he sank to the ground in disbelief.
A sound reached his ears. After a long moment, he shook off his paralysis and rose to his feet. Constance was still somewhere in this complex of tunnels—and now, it seemed she was in far greater danger than he had realized.