“We’re in capable hands with the Lieutenant.”
“It’s my strong opinion, sir, that you should head back to the Hall of the Heavens and wait there for assistance. We’re sending in a SWAT team to rescue you.”
“I have every confidence in Lieutenant D’Agosta. As should you.”
“Yes, of course, sir. Rest assured that I’m going to get you safely out of there, sir.”
“Coffey?”
“Sir?”
“There are three dozen people in here besides me. Don’t forget that.”
“But I just want you to know, sir, we’re being extra—”
“Coffey! I don’t think you understood me. Every life down here is worth all the effort you’ve got.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Mayor handed the radio back to D’Agosta. “Am I wrong, or is that fellow Coffey a horse’s ass?” he muttered.
D’Agosta holstered the radio and proceeded down the passage. Then he stopped, playing his flashlight over an object that loomed out of the blackness in front of them. It was a steel door, closed. The oily water rushed through a thickly barred grating in its bottom panel. He waded closer. It was similar to the door at the base of the stairwell: thick, double-plated, studded with rusty rivets. An old copper lock, covered with verdigris, was looped through a thick metal D ring along the door’s side. D’Agosta grabbed the lock and pulled, but it held fast.
“Pendergast?” said D’Agosta, removing his radio once again.
“Reading.”
“We’re past the first fork, but we’ve hit a steel door, and it’s locked.”
“A locked door? Between the first and second forks?”
“Yes.”
“And you took a right at the first fork?”
“Yes.”
“One minute.” There was a shuffling sound. “Vincent, go back to the fork and take the left-hand tunnel. Hurry.”
D’Agosta wheeled around. “Bailey! We’re heading back to that last fork. All of you, let’s go. On the double!”
The group turned wearily, murmuring, and started moving back through the inky water.
“Wait!” came the voice of Bailey, from the head of the group. “Christ, Lieutenant, do you smell it?”
“No,” said D’Agosta; then “shit!” as the fetid stench enveloped him. “Bailey, we’re going to have to make a stand! I’m coming up. Fire at the son of a bitch!”
Cuthbert sat on the worktable, absently tapping its scarred surface with a pencil eraser. At the far end of the table, Wright sat motionless, his head in his hands. Rickman stood on her tiptoes by the small window. She was angling the flashlight through the bars in front of the glass, switching it on and off with a manicured finger.
A brief flash of lightning silhouetted her thin form, then a low rumble of thunder filled the room.
“It’s pouring out,” she said. “I can’t see a thing.”
“And nobody can see you,” said Cuthbert wearily. “All you’re doing is wearing out the battery. We may need it later.”
With an audible sigh, Rickman switched off the light, plunging the lab once again into darkness.
“I wonder what it did with Montague’s body,” came the slurred voice of Wright. “Ate him up?” Laughter spluttered out of the gloom.
Cuthbert continued tapping the pencil.
“Ate him up! With a little curry and rice, maybe! Montague pilaf!” Wright chuckled.
Cuthbert stood up, reached over toward the Director, and plucked the .357 from Wright’s belt. He checked the bullets, then tucked it into his own belt.
“Return that at once!” Wright demanded.
Cuthbert said nothing.
“You’re a bully, Ian. You’ve always been a bully, a small-minded, jealous bully. First thing Monday morning, I’m going to fire you. In fact, you’re fired now.” Wright stood up unsteadily. “Fired, you hear me?”
Cuthbert was standing at the front door of the laboratory, listening.
“What is it?” Rickman asked in alarm. Cuthbert held his hand up sharply.
Silence.
At length, Cuthbert turned away from the door. “I thought I heard a noise,” he said. He looked toward Rickman. “Lavinia? Could you come here a moment?”
“What is it?” she asked, breathless.
Cuthbert drew her aside. “Hand me the torch,” he said. “Now, listen. I don’t want to alarm you. But should something happen—”
“What do you mean?” she interrupted, her voice breaking.
“Whatever it was that’s been killing people is still loose. I’m not sure we’re safe in here.”
“But the door! Winston said it was two inches thick—”
“I know. Maybe everything will be fine. But those doors to the exhibition were even thicker than that, and I’d like to take a few precautions. Help me move this table up against the door.” He turned toward the Director.
Wright looked up vaguely. “Fired! Clean out your desk by five o’clock Monday.”