“Now,” said D’Agosta, speaking fast into his radio. “Get into position.”
As the applause and cheers echoed thunderously, D’Agosta walked briskly forward along the wall, then ducked past the doors into the empty exhibition. He did a quick scan inside, then spoke into his radio. “Clear.” Ippolito came up next, scowling at D’Agosta. Arm in arm, the Mayor and the Director stood in the doorway, posing for the cameras. Then, beaming, they walked forward into the exhibition.
As D’Agosta moved deeper into the exhibition ahead of the group, the cheering and applause grew fainter. Inside, it was cool and smelled of new carpeting and dust, with a faint unpleasant odor of decay.
Wright and Cuthbert were giving the Mayor a tour. Behind them, D’Agosta could see his two men, and behind them a vast sea of people, crowding in, craning their necks, gesturing, talking. From D’Agosta’s perspective within the exhibition, it looked like a tidal wave. One exit. Shit.
He spoke into his radio. “Walden, I want you to tell those Museum guards to slow down the flow. Too many goddamn people are crowding in here.”
“Ten-four, Lieutenant.”
“This,” said Wright, still holding the Mayor’s arm, “is a very rare sacrificial gurney from Mesoamerica. That’s the Sun God depicted on the front, guarded by jaguars. The priests would sacrifice the victim on this table, cut out the beating heart, and hold it up to the sun. The blood flowed down these channels and collected here at the bottom.”
“Impressive,” said the Mayor. “I could use one of those up in Albany.”
Wright and Cuthbert laughed, the sound reverberating off the still artifacts and display cases.
Coffey stood in the forward security station, legs apart, hands on hips, his face expressionless. Most of the guests had arrived, and those who hadn’t were probably not going to venture out. It was raining in earnest now, sheets of water cascading onto the pavement. Across the expanse of the Rotunda, through the east door, Coffey could clearly see the festivities in the Hall of the Heavens. It was a beautiful room, with coruscating stars covering the velvety black dome that floated sixty feet overhead. Swirling galaxies and nebulae glowed softly along the walls. Wright was speaking at the podium, and the cutting ceremony would be starting soon.
“How’s it look?” Coffey asked one of his agents.
“Nothing exciting,” the agent said, scanning the security board. “No breaches, no alarms. Perimeter’s quiet as a tomb.”
“The way I like it,” Coffey replied.
He glanced back into the Hall of the Heavens in time to see two guards pulling open the huge doors to the Superstition Exhibition. He’d missed the ribbon cutting. The crowd was moving forward now, all five thousand at once, it seemed.
“What the hell do you think Pendergast is up to?” Coffey said to another of his agents. He was glad Pendergast was out of his hair for the time being, but he was nervous at the thought of the Southerner wandering around, beholden to no one.
“Haven’t seen him,” came the response. “Want me to check with Security Command?”
“Naw,” Coffey said. “It’s nice without him. Nice and peaceful.”
D’Agosta’s radio hissed. “Walden here. Listen, we need some help. The guards are having a hard time controlling the flow. There’s just too many people.”
“Where’s Spenser? He should be floating around there somewhere. Have him bar the entrance, let people out but not in, while you and the Museum guards set up an orderly line. This crowd has to be controlled.”
“Yes, sir.”
The exhibition was filling up quickly now. Twenty minutes had gone by and Wright and the Mayor were deep inside the exhibition, near the locked rear exit. They’d moved quickly at first, keeping to the central halls and avoiding the secondary passages. But now, Wright had stopped at a particular exhibit to explain something to the Mayor, and people were streaming past them into the exhibition’s farthest recesses.
“Keep near the front,” D’Agosta said to Bailey and McNitt, the two men on advance duty.
He skipped ahead and did a quick visual through two side alcoves. Spooky exhibition, he thought. A very sophisticated haunted house, with all the trimmings. The dim lighting, for instance. Not so dim, though, that you couldn’t make out nasty little details. Like the Congo power figure, with its bulging eye sockets and torso riddled with sharp nails. Or the nearby mummy, vertical in a freestanding case, that was streaked with dripped blood. Now that, thought D’Agosta, is a little overdone.
The crowd continued to spread out, and he ducked into the next set of alcoves. All clear.
“Walden, how’d you make out?” D’Agosta radioed.
“Lieutenant, I can’t find Spenser. He doesn’t seem to be around, and I can’t leave the entrance to find him with the crowd the way it is.”
“Shit. Okay, I’m calling Drogan and Frazier over to help you.”