Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(88)
Constance reviewed her situation. She had spent many of her younger years in a dark basement not unlike this one, and had once possessed an exquisite sense of hearing and smell, as well as keen night vision. She knew how to move in total silence. Those senses, dulled more than she’d expected by normal living, quickened somewhat in the dark and looming danger of the tunnels. She could not see—there was no light at all—but she could hear.
The creature was snuffling again, loudly, like a dog with its nose in the air, trying to catch a scent—her scent. But the air was dead, with no movement at all; that was to her advantage.
With extreme care she moved away from the sound, one hand sliding lightly along the wall as she went, feet probing gently ahead so as to make no noise. The wall of the tunnel made a turn, and another turn, and yet another; soon she came to a dead end and had to retrace her steps. At another point, she came to a heap of old bones that quietly crumbled under her touch while she worked her way past them.
She sensed she had entered an underground maze of crisscrossing tunnels, alcoves, and culs-de-sac. Again, the air was completely dead, the atmosphere one of staleness and desuetude. There was a lot of old refuse on the ground, and the walls were crawling with centipedes, spiders, and pill bugs. It seemed these were long-abandoned tunnels that, perhaps, the creature might be less familiar with. What she needed to do was maneuver past it, somehow, and then get out—with all possible speed.
As she listened, she heard more snuffling and labored breathing, and it occurred to her that the demon might be injured. She felt increasingly certain that it was looking for her.
She began moving again, not knowing where she was going, her aim now merely to keep away from the creature. But even as she moved, the sounds ceased. She continued down one long tunnel segment, then froze: she could hear him moving, breathing hard, ahead of her and headed in her direction. Pressing herself against the wall, she waited, holding her breath. The sounds came closer, along with a grotesque and now-familiar stench that seemed to envelop her…a shuffling of feet on the sandy floor…and then he had passed by, following the path of an intersecting tunnel.
She exhaled. The demon didn’t seem to have as keen a sense of smell as she had feared. Or had it deliberately passed her by? Either way, this was her chance. If she moved in the direction opposite to the demon, perhaps it would lead her out. At the very least, it would distance her from him. She started forward, faster now—only to suddenly feel a cold, cold hand clamp down over her face and mouth.
58
Rivera stood near Chief Mourdock’s squad car, watching the handler work the dogs. The man had arrived in record time, accompanied by two powerful redbone coonhounds, which, he claimed, were especially suited for work in swamps and water. Rivera sure hoped so; even from here, he could see that the tide was coming in fast.
The enigmatic Paul Silas stood off to one side, tall and silent. Rivera wondered if he’d made the right choice in accepting his help. True, the man did have a faint air of the military about him. And as he looked out again over the dark salt marshes—thrashing in the wind, tatters of mist whisked along in the dying storm—he realized he had no desire to venture into that hell without guidance.
As he’d waited for the dog handler, he’d worked out the basic sequence. The killer, after first wreaking havoc in the town, had gone on to kill Chief Mourdock here on Dune Road, and then disappeared southward. With much loud baying the dogs had picked up the trail from the squad car and were even now beginning to follow it into the marsh.
Silas began following the dogs and Rivera hurried to catch up to him, Rivera with a flashlight, Silas with a headlamp. They were preceded by five heavily armed members of the SWAT team and an officer carrying a powerful beacon that shot a brilliant beam of light a hundred yards ahead.
The dog handler was a big man with a red beard, wearing a Red Sox cap and bundled in a slicker. His name was Mike Kenney and he seemed to know what he was doing. The dogs, too, looked like they meant business. Kenney had them both on long leashes and was firmly in control. The dogs were following the trail without hesitation, charging ahead confidently and pulling Kenney along.
Rivera continued following the SWAT team, Silas at his side. He had a waterproof GPS that promised to show them exactly where they were.
“Any idea where he’s headed?” Rivera asked Silas.
“He seems to be making a beeline across the marshes. Which would bring him out on Crow Island.”
“And what’s out there?”
“Nothing but scrub pines, sand dunes, some ruins, and a beach. Most of the island’s a wildlife refuge.”
“So what’s ahead I ought to know about?” He was staring at his GPS, but he couldn’t seem to translate the neat green-and-yellow map to the howling wilderness they were in. Kenney and the dogs had disappeared into a sea of salt grass, followed by the SWAT team, and he could hear the dogs baying up ahead. As they proceeded, the baying of the dogs seemed to ratchet up a notch.
“Well,” said Silas, “if he keeps up this line, he’s heading for the Stackyard Channel.”
“Which is?”
“That’s the main tidal channel of the marsh. The tide runs through there pretty hard. We’re at three-quarter incoming tide, which is when the current peaks. It’ll be running five, six knots.”
“Can we wade it?”