The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [179]
As they approached the hole, Nora could see a faint glow within, and a flash of light. A pause, another flash. Someone was taking pictures.
“Mr. Pendergast—” Captain Custer called.
But the lithe FBI agent was bounding up the pile of rubble. The others halted at the base, breathing heavily. Nora followed Pendergast, who had already vanished into the dark hole. She paused on the broken wall and peered down.
“Do come in,” said Pendergast, in his most inviting southern voice.
She scrambled down the fallen bricks, coming to a stop on the damp floor. There was another flash of light. A man in a white labcoat was bent over, examining something in a small arched niche. A photographer stood at another niche with a four-by-five camera, bracketed by two slave flash units.
The man in the white coat straightened up, peering at them through the dust. He had a thick shock of gray hair that, combined with his round black-framed glasses, made him look faintly like an old Bolshevik revolutionary.
“Who the devil are you, barging in like this?” he cried, his voice echoing down the barrow. “I was not to be disturbed!”
“FBI,” rapped out Pendergast. His voice was now totally different: sharp, stern, officious. With a snap of leather, he shoved his badge toward the man’s face.
“Oh,” the man said, faltering. “I see.”
Nora looked from one to the other, surprised at Pendergast’s apparent ability to read people instantly, then manipulate them accordingly.
“May I ask you to please vacate the site while my colleague, Dr. Kelly, and I make an examination?”
“Look here, I’m in the middle of my work.”
“Have you touched anything?” It came out as a threat.
“No… not really. Of course, I’ve handled some of the bones—”
“You handled some of the bones?”
“Consistent with my responsibility to determine cause of death—”
“You handled some of the bones?” Pendergast pulled a thin pad and a gold pen from his jacket pocket and made a note, shaking his head in disgust. “Your name, Doctor?”
“Van Bronck.”
“I’ll make a note of it for the hearing. And now, Dr. Van Bronck, if you’ll kindly let us proceed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pendergast watched as the ME and the photographer climbed laboriously out of the tunnel. Then he turned to Nora and spoke in a low, rapid voice. “It’s your site now. I’ve bought us an hour, maybe less, so make the best of it.”
“The best of what?” Nora asked in a panic. “Just what am I supposed to be doing? I’ve never—”
“You’re trained in ways that I’m not. Survey the site. I want to know what happened here. Help me understand it.”
“In an hour? I don’t have any tools, anything to store samples—”
“We’re almost too late as it is. Did you notice they had the precinct captain on the site? As I said, Moegen-Fairhaven pulls an enormous amount of weight. This will be our only chance. I need the maximum amount of information in the minimum amount of time. It’s extremely important.” He handed her the pen and pad, then withdrew two slender penlights from his coat and passed one to her.
Nora switched it on. For its size, the penlight was very powerful. She looked around, taking note of her surroundings for the first time. It was cool and silent. Motes drifted in the single banner of light streaming through the broken hole. The air smelled corrupt, a mixture of fungus, old meat, and mold. She breathed it in deeply nevertheless, trying to focus. Archaeology was a slow, methodical business. Here, faced with a ticking clock, she barely knew where to begin.
She hesitated another moment. Then she began to sketch the tunnel. It was about eighty feet long, ten feet high at the arch, bricked up at the ends. The ceiling was filmed with cracks. The dust covering the floor had been recently disturbed, more so than could be explained by the presence of a single medical examiner: Nora wondered how many construction workers and policemen had already wandered through here.
Half a dozen niches ran along both walls. She walked along the wet floor of the tunnel,