Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(84)

He drew his Les Baer and listened once again. Still nothing.

Switching the penlight back on, he examined the stairs and saw clear signs of recent passage, including sand, moisture from the storm, and a partial—but clear—bare print. Once again, he felt a deep disturbance at this; it was an incontrovertible sign of how he had overlooked crucial evidence. But even as he sorted through that evidence in his mind, he could not arrive at an explanation for the sudden appearance of a monstrous, barefoot mass murderer in Exmouth, or why it had chosen this moment to unleash its ferocity on the town.

Deep anxiety for Constance’s safety warred with caution inside him as he descended the stairs and crept forward, moving cat-like along the tunnel. Scratchings, both ancient and fresh—pictographs, demonic figures, symbols, odd Latin phrases—all mingled together on the walls.

And then he heard it: an animalistic murmur, a sibilant, quasi-human utterance. He froze, listening. The sound was distorted by the web of tunnels. Now came a voice, pleading and indistinct, again too unclear to make out the words or even the sex of the speaker.

A beast-like roar echoed through the tunnels. Another roar came rolling down, and then in response, a reasonable-sounding voice, pleading, first quietly and then louder and louder, ending at last in a high-pitched, horribly distorted scream.

Pendergast broke into a run; the tunnel divided and he took the right fork, heading in the direction the sound seemed to have issued from. But there was another fork in the tunnel, which he again took, only to be halted by a cul-de-sac. He turned and retraced his steps even as a second hideous scream reverberated; it was a male voice, he could tell that now, but its terror was so profound that its owner could never have been recognized.

But where was Constance?

Turning down yet another passageway, his flashlight beam reflected off what appeared to be a pool of blood; he raised the light to reveal two corpses, lying on their backs, limbs splayed, eyes wide open. He recognized them both as inhabitants of Exmouth: one was the fisherman who had given Constance a ride to the police station, the other he had seen one evening at the bar at the Inn. Both had been torn apart in the most horrifying and brutal way imaginable. Bloody bare footprints led away from the mess. Pendergast examined the scene with his flashlight. It told a horrifying story indeed.

And then, as if to underscore the horror, the fresh sounds of torture and pain came rolling down the tunnels.





Constance Greene felt her way along the slick walls of the tunnel with both hands. She had left behind what dim light there was, and she was now cloaked in a profound darkness. Her hands were still cuffed, and her stiletto was tucked once again into a pocket of her dress. The sounds of extreme agony and torture continued to echo through the tunnels. Constance had seen and heard many unpleasant things in her lifetime, but few if any were as sickening as what was clearly transpiring behind her.

The sounds were now dying out, as Gavin evidently sank into death. She turned her attention back to the problem at hand—escaping from this hellhole and the insane creature that tenanted it. She hoped—although common sense told her it was unlikely—there might be a second exit at the far end of the tunnels. If not, then perhaps there might be a place in which she could hide and wait for an opportunity to slip out.

As she moved deeper into the underground complex, the stench lessened somewhat, replaced with earthy smells of fungus, mold, and damp. The problem was that she had become disoriented in the darkness of this new set of tunnels, and was unsure how to return the way she had come. But the darkness did not frighten her—she was used to it and, in some ways, even found it a comfort—and she felt confident in her ability to merge with the dark, become one with the walls. In time, the disorientation would also turn to familiarity…if she were allowed that time.

And now, with one final chuckle of anguish from behind her, silence descended. The demon was finished with Gavin, and he was gone.





54



He held up his hands. They were red and wet. He licked them. They tasted like the bars of his cage. He looked down. The head of the Bad One lay upside down, tongue dangling, eyes open.

He smelled the air, and there were strange smells. The girl had run away.

He took his big toe and poked the head in the eye. He was looking at something far away. Very far away.

Where was the girl?

He sniffed the air. He wanted her out. This was his home. This was his territory. Not hers. He had gotten rid of the hated faces. They would come no more. This place was his now.

He walked past the altar and pinched out the light. Now it was dark. Darkness was his friend. It made others stupid and afraid.

The girl was going into the Dead Ends.

His chains were gone. The strange one had suddenly appeared, warning him of the Killing Men who were coming for him, and then broken his lock. He was free now. He could go anywhere—even to the Above Place. But he had been to the Above Place…and it was not as they had promised. They had lied. What he had dreamed about all his life was a lie. Like everything else they said. The sun, they had called it. All the pain they caused him, the Blooding Knife and the rest, they said would be made up for when, one day, they would take him to the Sun, the warm fire in the sky. Darkness gone, light everywhere.

Thinking of this, thinking of the pain, thinking of the lies, thinking of the cold blackness he had found in the Above Place, just like here, the rage came back. Stronger than ever.